She reached for Dovey’s hand, but Dovey danced back. “Go on, Sophronia. You go home, and leave me be.”
Sophronia’s thin cheeks bloomed with angry red spots. “Mrs. Harris is waiting!”
“You heard the girl,” Ruby said, wrapping a protective arm around Dovey’s waist. “She doesn’t want to go with you. Now tiff off and leave us all alone.”
Sophronia lunged forward and hooked her arm through Dovey’s, clamping a hand as hard as a carpenter’s vise just above her elbow.
“Yow!” Dovey yelled. “Let me go, you muck sniper!”
“Oh, I most certainly will not let you go.” Sophronia began hauling her up the street, away from Penny and Ruby, away from the line of cribs and the damp, echoing alleys. “If you won’t have sense enough to save yourself from infamy, Dovey Mason, then I must do it for you.”
Dovey made a halfhearted attempt to reason with Sophronia—though she knew from long, tedious experience that the attempt was likely to be futile. “You don’t even know what I intend. It’s not what you think—not what it seems.” Instantly, she wished she had kept her peace. The tax collecting was only a temporary occupation, a means to a far more glorious end. And if Sophronia ever caught wind of just what Dovey planned for her future … She shuddered to think of the uproar that would surely result. Sophronia would see no moral difference between whoring and merely maintaining a fancy house in which other women whored. It was all the same egregious vexation to her.
Penny and Ruby scampered after them, catching at Dovey’s hand, trying to halt the avalanche of Sophronia’s rage. But she seemed propelled by the righteous wrath of Heaven itself, and Dovey’s friends could neither stop Sophronia nor wrench Dovey from her grasp.
“You aren’t my mother or my big sister,” Dovey said, “and once I start my new occupation, you’ll be sorry!”
“Your new occupation, indeed!” Sophronia kicked at Penny’s ankle to dislodge the harlot’s grip on the edge of her corset. Penny fell back, cursing, and Sophronia marched on. “You won’t be with these filthy fallen women—nor any other unfortunates. I’ll chain you to the pipes if need be!”
Dovey made one last, desperate effort, twisting and cursing, throwing all her slight weight against Sophronia’s iron grip. But the coarse language and vigorous thrashing only seemed to lock Sophronia’s fingers all the tighter on Dovey’s flesh. She subsided and walked on calmly at Sophronia’s side.
From somewhere behind them, in the wide, muddy street of the cribs, Haypenny’s voice rose, angry and shrill, into the evening sky. “Don’t you worry, Dovey. I’ll get this creeper back. I’ll make her regret speaking poorly of you—and of us all!”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
A FORCED HAND
The meeting of the Women’s League concluded with an eloquent prayer, delivered in Mrs. Garfield’s cultured warble. Sophronia clasped her hands tightly in her lap, gazing down at the folds of her sapphire-blue skirt, listening as Mrs. Garfield beseeched the Lord to lend His mercy to the sinners of Seattle, to deliver them from this pit of wretchedness and sin.
Sophronia couldn’t help but feel that she was one of the very sinners Mrs. Garfield prayed for. In fact, she rather suspected that she held the place of honor at the top of the plump woman’s list of the potentially damned. Neither Mrs. Garfield nor her friends had forgotten Sophronia’s shameful display of temper the night the Mercer girls had arrived in Seattle. Sophronia had startled them all by walking into the lobby of the Occidental and taking her seat among the other League members as if she belonged there. But she hoped that one day she would belong in truth, and as Mrs. Garfield’s prayer went on, Sophronia offered up one of her own.
Let them see that I’ve repented of my sinful and shocking ways, Lord. Grant me acceptance—a place in this strange new world.
Strange—that was the kindest thing Sophronia could say of the city she now must call her home. She had tried with all her heart, with the very best of her good intentions, to be grateful for the opportunity the Lord had provided. In Massachusetts she had frightened away so many men with her sharp, bitter tongue—all those potential husbands, gone for good.
And she was already off to a poor start in Seattle. She had accepted three men’s calls already, but none of them would do. The first had strolled with her along the rocky beach north of town, but the coarse fellow had been unable to speak without swearing. His tongue was as filthy as a sailor’s; foul words filled the spaces that a cultured man would have left to thoughtful pauses, and he seemed to curse as easily as he breathed. By the time they’d made it back to Sophronia’s host home, her cheeks had been hot with mortification, and she had turned away frostily without a word when he asked if he might see her again.
The second man had hardly been an improvement. Though his vocabulary was sufficiently civil for a lady’s ear, Sophronia had detected the faint scent of whiskey on him. He wasn’t drunk—not that she could discern—but clearly he was a man familiar with vice. She had declined his request for another visit more politely than she had the first man’s, but her disapproval had been clear. So clear, in fact, that the man had turned on his heel with an indignant huff and stalked away down the street without once glancing back at her.
And the third suitor—well! Vincent Tidworth had seemed charming and pleasant, with fine manners, cultured speech, and a neat, dignified appearance. Sophronia had taken a liking to him right away—a cautious liking, of course. She had learned better than to foster attachment to any man before he showed his true colors.
And show his colors, he did! Their first engagement had been a pure delight. They’d driven along the crest of the hills that overlooked the town—always with Sophronia riding beside Mr. Tidworth on the driver’s seat; a lady could not conceal herself in a carriage when out with a suitor—and shared a box lunch on the university’s lawn. That ideal afternoon left Sophronia with the smallest glow of hope that he’d call on her again. Mr. Tidworth did call on her the very next day, presenting a bouquet of lovely wildflowers and a little bag of saltwater taffy, which they’d enjoyed as they listened to the brass band play outside Yesler’s Pavilion.
But that evening, when he walked her home, the cad had attempted to kiss her on the cheek. Sophronia’s affronted gasp had stalled Mr. Tidworth as he advanced toward her, his lips puckered presumptuously beneath his bristling mustache. Her sharp slap had sent him packing, and though she was pleased not to hear him ask for a third call, the trail of curses he left in his wake had soured her stomach.
If there is but one good man in all of Seattle, I will find him—I hope.
Seattle offered her final chance at happiness. She ought to view it through a prism of hope and light, a vista kissed by a promising sun. But the truth was, the newborn town terrified her. It was as gray and oppressive as its perpetual cover of cloud suggested—a lawless, filthy place where a woman of decency must fear for her safety—and for her future. How could Sophronia hope to find a good, respectable man to wed in a city peopled by miscreants?
“Lord,” Mrs. Garfield said, “we pray that you will send to our city, our community, a wholesome cargo. Amen.”
A wholesome cargo. At the sound of those words, Sophronia fought the twisting of her mouth, fixing a mask of perfect calm to her face with a Herculean effort. She was well aware that Mrs. Garfield and her compatriots still thought the Mercer girls a cargo of whores.
There is nothing for it but to show them the error of their assumptions.
Sophronia was determined to be a very pattern of virtue, to prove to these women by example—by main force of her considerable will—that all of Mercer’s imported women were of high mind and real quality. Even Dovey hadn’t yet fallen, though the tommish little beast seemed determined to do so. The rest of the young ladies from Massachusetts were good, respectable girls—hardworking, moral, and generous to the centers of their souls. Even Josephine, with her dark secret, was still a respectable woman. Jo had kept her promise to remain unattached until Clifford freed
her from the snare of that abysmal marriage, and Sophronia could find no fault in the older woman’s comportment.
If I can but make the Women’s Society accept me as one of their own—then I’ll have cleared the names of all of Mercer’s girls. Then she would have done the true work of a missionary—redeeming the damned, saving the doomed from a dark, bitter fate. No matter that the only damnation the newcomers faced was the scorn of Mrs. Garfield’s society. Their rebuke certainly felt sharp enough to carry the weight of divine judgment.
The meeting adjourned, and Sophronia made her way out of the Occidental as quickly as she could. She had no hope of clasping a friendly hand among the members of the League—not yet. She would win their acceptance with time, but for now, as her first meeting closed in a rustle of skirts and a murmur of restrained, feminine voices, she sensed instinctively that she was better off giving the Women’s Society the Irish farewell.
She took her cloak from the doorman with a murmur of thanks and slipped out into the dark, windy chill of a Seattle night. The sky was a patchwork of silver and black. Low-slung, coal-dark rags of cloud, backlit by a hidden moon, scudded behind the hills that towered like mysterious obelisks over the city. Skid Road stood out against the nearest hill in sharp relief, a straight silver track like a knife’s slash through the body of the night.
Sophronia bundled herself tightly in her cloak and set off up Second Avenue, walking quickly, making for the Jameson house where she was so kindly hosted. She kept her eyes downcast, unwilling to watch the dim, eerie shadows of wind-chased cloud writhe snakelike over cobbles and shuttered shops. She pressed on for a good fifteen minutes, and only then, when her feet had not found the rise of the hill that led up to the Jamesons’ home, did she glance up to take in her surroundings.
She did not recognize the street. None of the buildings seemed in the least familiar. In fact, she saw nothing that could have passed for a merchant’s store. Somehow, perhaps thanks to her distraction over Mrs. Garfield’s rejection, Sophronia had taken a wrong turn.
Her heart pounded wildly, but she counseled herself to calm. She stared up over the square-topped roofs of the nearby buildings, searching for the pale, angular jut of the Occidental’s facade, rising high above the rest of Seattle’s architecture. She spotted it, watchful and still, mysterious as a pagan ziggurat in the thin, filtered moonlight. But the hotel was not where she’d thought to find it.
You’ve wandered far off course, you goose. Hurry home before the night grows any older.
Sophronia swallowed hard and looked about her, studying the empty streets until she was sure of her bearings. Little wonder she’d lost her way. All the roads in Seattle looked very much the same—muddy, rough, lined with slipshod buildings and peopled by gamblers, drunks, and whores. But at least this present district, wherever she’d found herself, was devoid of people. No doubt its usual cast of unsavories had trickled down to that bleak avenue between the docks and Skid Road, where the gamblers diced away their salvation and the whores kept house in their rickety, painted cribs.
She decided the wisest course was to return to the Occidental and pick out her route home from its front door. Now and then, as she passed side streets, she caught the distant sounds of rowdy drinking and smelled the stale whiff of cheap beer. A man called to her drunkenly from one narrow street, and Sophronia’s breath froze in her chest. She gathered her skirt and petticoats in her hands and rushed away, leaving the man behind her to simmer in his filthy lusts.
When she had nearly reached the Occidental—the familiar angle of its strange, acute intersection lay just ahead—Sophronia heard footsteps on the sidewalk behind her. They fell rough and heavy, with a slight, drunken drag, but they approached quickly enough that she spun in fear to face whatever creature loomed in the darkness.
It was a man—thick and square as a butcher’s block, with long, reaching arms; he rumbled with hoarse laughter as he closed the distance between them. For one heart-pounding moment, Sophronia was sure it was Clifford come again—Clifford, stalking his prey all the way from the alley where she’d felled him in San Francisco. Then the man spoke, and she was sure it was not Clifford. But his eye flashed in a stray glint of the Occidental’s lamps, and Sophronia saw the danger in his bleary stare.
“Pretty little thing like you, out all alone.”
Sophronia looked around desperately. There was no weapon to hand—no convenient paling to wield as a club, no knife, no shield. There was nothing to hand but the usual thick, salty muck that clotted Seattle’s streets, and a few discarded chicken bones in the gutter.
The man leered down at her. “What a doll, what a doll. Wouldn’t a man be lucky to have a little wife like you?”
The words were meant to be pretty, no doubt. They only turned Sophronia’s stomach, as did the stench of liquor and old, stale sweat that drifted from his body. She turned and headed for the Occidental with all speed, but the man overtook her, stepping into her path with an agility and precision that seemed supernatural in one so deplorably drunk.
“Step away,” she said coolly, “and let me pass.”
The man laughed, an oily sound, wicked and slow.
“I’ll scream,” she warned him.
He inched closer. A gust of whiskey made her choke and turn her face away. “Go ahead,” the man whispered. “I like it better when they scream.”
A fierce fire rushed through Sophronia’s limbs, so sudden, so hot with desperation, that she nearly yelled with the force of it. She planted both her hands on her assailant’s chest and shoved as hard as she could. He was drunk enough that the push sent him off-kilter—only for a moment, but it was all the reprieve Sophronia needed to win her way past. She dodged around his great, stinking body, but his hand flashed out, reaching for her breast. He caught the edge of her bodice instead, grimy fingers locking into the delicate fabric, gripping with a strength that made Sophronia feel, for one terrible moment of blind, senseless panic, like a mouse in a hawk’s talons. Then she wrenched, twisting her body and clawing at his wrist. The fabric of her dress tore—but she was free.
She ran up the road, splashing through a wide, cold puddle. In her fear, she swerved past the Occidental and pelted up the street. Fool! she chided herself. But she knew now where she was. Only a block away, she could see the windows of the Terry house glowing, narrow and tall in their high-peaked, Gothic gables.
Sophronia pounded up the steps and onto the Terrys’ porch. The door flew open, spilling a great, warm shaft of light out into the darkness. Sophronia flung herself into the shelter of that glow as if it could offer divine sanctuary. She clutched at the porch’s carved post, breathless and heaving.
“Sophronia! Mother of God, girl, what’s happened to you?”
It was Josephine who stood in the doorway—Jo, sturdy and sensible, a shield against the terrors of the night. Sophronia loosed one pitiful sob and threw herself into Josephine’s arms.
Jo dragged her inside, shutting the door securely and then dropping down the latch for good measure. She eased Sophronia into a parlor chair and bent over her, patting her hair, murmuring comforts as she turned her friend’s face this way and that with her gentle hands, searching for signs of violence. When she saw the torn bodice of Sophronia’s dress, she straightened in grim silence.
“Jo? What is it? Who was outside?”
To Sophronia’s dull surprise, Dovey came bouncing into the parlor, swinging a basket of quilt patches on her arm. The girl saw Sophronia, tear-streaked and utterly beside herself, and dropped her basket on the floor. She stared at Sophronia, dark eyes huge in her round, angelic face.
“Whatever’s happened to you, Sophie?” Dovey took a few halting steps forward but stopped short of touching Sophronia.
Am I such a fright to look upon, Sophronia wondered, or does Dovey still hate me for my behavior three days ago, when I dragged her away from the docks?
She pawed weakly at her torn dress and gave a mewling cry of despair.
Jo bent ove
r her again. She looked soberly into her eyes. “Listen to me, Sophronia. Were you hurt in any way?”
Sophronia shook her head. She tried to speak, but could only manage a weak little sigh.
“Whoever attacked you, he didn’t throw you down—didn’t force—”
“No,” Sophronia said, shuddering. “No, thank heavens, no.”
Dovey sank to her knees beside the chair. She took Sophronia’s hand, and her touch was gentle, forgiving. “What happened, then? Tell us, Sophie—please.”
“It was just … just a man. He came out of the darkness.” She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to push away the memory. But it was too fresh, too immediate. The man would not be ignored; his rough touch would not be denied, even now, after Sophronia had struggled free. “He tried to grab me, but I got away.”
Jo sighed and brushed Sophronia’s brow with a kiss. “You poor thing.”
A lump of self-pity rose up in Sophronia’s throat. She swallowed it down forcefully, refusing to allow her fear any further purchase. “I’m all right. Don’t worry about me, you girls—and don’t pity me, either.”
“Don’t be silly,” Jo said. “You need time to recover from this attack. Charles and Mary have gone out of town for a few days; you’ll stay here with me until you’re quite well. Now, just sit back in that chair. Dovey, is the teakettle still warm?”
“I don’t want tea,” Sophronia insisted. “I’m all right. Tonight’s … display … was no more than what I deserved.”
A blunt, hard silence fell over the parlor. Sophronia could hear the distant pop and crackle of the fire in the kitchen stove.
“What?” Dovey finally said. Her voice was flat with disgust.
“You heard me.”
“I heard you. I just didn’t believe my ears were functioning quite right.”
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