His smile was so broad, so pleased, that Josephine looked up from her lap, a cautious hope welling in her breast.
“Fear not,” Mercer said. He patted his palm against the stack of papers on his desk. “Somewhere in this pile is a letter signed by the town’s board of trustees. They’ve approved my plan for a second expedition to the eastern states, to bring back more women.”
“Oh! Why, that’s wonderful news.”
And God send that you’ll have better luck this time, Josephine added silently. A fresh influx of would-be brides, whether they numbered in the hundreds or only another dozen, would relieve much of the guilt Josephine felt at traipsing off to the island, leaving the town’s bachelors in the lurch.
“I expect to leave next year, if the funding comes through,” he said. “The following year at the latest. I learned much from my first attempt in Lowell; I’m certain I’ll be able to locate many more women who are eager to take part in settling the West.”
“That’s a great relief,” Josephine said. Mercer’s grin was so pleased, so shining with the surety of success, that she couldn’t help smiling in return. “I … I’m only sorry you didn’t find the women of true character you’d hoped for, the first time around.”
Mercer rose from his desk and bowed smoothly to Josephine. “Miss Carey, I certainly did find women of admirable strength and rectitude. You are true, honest women—every one.”
Josephine stood and clasped his hand warmly, her eyes and heart welling. His admiration for her was sincere; she had no doubt of that. But as he escorted her from his office and back across the university’s tranquil hall, Mercer’s unfailing belief in her honesty only filled her with a hot ache of shame.
I’m not the woman you think I am, Asa Mercer. Not at all.
But Josephine was her own woman now, and she was determined to build her new life in this wild frontier to suit her own heart.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
SWEETS
The Terry family was still away from the city, and so Dovey returned once more to the Gothic manse to keep Jo company for the night. In the spare room where Dovey was to sleep, by the light of a thick, tallow candle, she knelt on the rug to fold her trousers. Carefully, so as not to undo the neat pleats of her folding, she slid the taboo garment under her mattress. Her hand lingered on the rough cloth. She remembered Virgil’s smile when he’d called her pretty—remembered the sound of his laugh as he’d tossed the purse into the air. Her face flamed up so hot that she withdrew her hand from beneath the bed and pressed her cool fingers to her cheek, just in the spot where Virgil had kissed her.
Saints alive, that man is handsome.
Dovey stood, brushed her skirt where her knees had pressed it to the rug, and headed down to the kitchen. Jo had already brewed the tea; the floral bite of bergamot filled the room and mingled warmly with the glow of the coal-oil lamps, wrapping Dovey in a comforting blanket of orangey light and orangey fragrance.
Sophronia had come to share their supper. She sat at the table, contemplating a cup of tea, and Dovey paused at the foot of the stairwell, admiring the delicate burnishing of the light on Sophronia’s pale hair. The woman seemed to have recovered somewhat from her frightening brush with the alleyway thug. A little of Sophronia’s tender color had returned to her cheeks and lips, and her eyes looked more determined than haunted.
Dovey dropped into one of the cane-back kitchen chairs and smothered her yawn with one hand.
“Tired?” Sophronia asked, glancing up from her teacup.
Dovey nodded. “Busy day. But look—I got something nice for us to share, girls.”
She took a parcel, wrapped in brown paper, from her pocket and set it on the table with a flourish.
Jo left the stove and sat, eyeing the parcel and the blue string that tied it. “That string is from the candy shop.”
“It is.” Dovey grinned. “I stopped in there today and picked out a few treats. I think we deserve it, after all the trying days we’ve suffered.”
She picked the knot from the string and unwrapped the parcel, revealing the cache of molasses taffies wrapped in twists of waxed paper, red-and-white peppermint sticks, and a handful of roasted and iced hazelnuts, each one sunk in the pillowy depths of a hard meringue kiss.
Sophronia looked up sharply from the candies. “Where did you get the money for these things, Dovey?”
“Don’t you worry about that. I didn’t steal them, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”
Jo took a peppermint and gave it an experimental lick. “I think you’re a darling for sharing. I’m glad to have something sweet to brighten my mood. Lord knows, I’ve needed it.”
“You were both so kind and generous to me on the voyage to Seattle—sharing your food and all. A few sweeties are the least I can manage toward paying you back.”
“You don’t owe any payment,” Sophronia muttered, toying with the handle of her teacup. “I only showed you Christian charity—the same any person would have shown.”
“Lay aside that missionary act for a moment and have a kiss.”
Dovey flicked one of the hazelnuts across the table. It skittered in Sophronia’s direction; she trapped it under her palm with a quick swat, like a cat batting at a moth. Then she picked the candy up, stared at it soberly for a moment, and placed it delicately on her tongue.
“It’s good, isn’t it?” Dovey asked.
Slowly, reluctantly, Sophronia smiled. Dovey grinned back at her, pleased that her money could induce such a miracle as this un-Sophie-like display of enjoyment. She was pleased, too, that it was her money—that she had earned it by her own sweat and cleverness, and owed no man thanks for the weight of it in her pocket.
“Well, girls,” Dovey said, “we’ve been in Seattle two weeks, just about. What do you make of the place so far?”
“It’s far dirtier than I thought it would be,” Jo said. “The mud gets in everywhere. I try to help Mrs. Terry out by tidying up, but it seems I’m forever sweeping. I don’t know how any woman manages to keep house and her sanity in this place. But I suppose one just gets used to it. Eventually.”
“And you?” Dovey asked Sophronia. “Has Seattle lived up to your expectations of its filth?”
But Sophronia didn’t rise to the bait. She sipped at her tea, eyes distant, and said, “I certainly have not met any man yet who can be called a true Christian. At least, no available bachelors. But I shall not give up the quest.”
Dovey groaned. “You aren’t still considering that mad idea, are you?”
“I am determined. I shall marry the next devout and worthy man who proposes.”
“It’s a terrible idea,” Dovey said flatly. “Rather than waiting on a man to care for you, I think you ought to go into business for yourself. Be your own source of strength, Sophie. Lord knows you’re tough enough to do it.”
“Go into business for myself?” Sophronia narrowed her eyes at Dovey, scrunching up her nose as if Dovey had just suggested she sprout wings and fly circles around the Occidental. “What do you know about going into business, anyway?”
Dovey rested her elbows on the table and leaned in with a confidential air. “Plenty. I just took a job, you know. Today was my first day on the rolls.”
“Teaching, you mean?” Jo asked.
“Never. Can you imagine any school letting me in to teach the children? No—I’ve taken a position as a tax collector.”
“A tax collector!” Jo shook her head in amazement. “Dovey, isn’t that work better suited to a man?”
She shrugged. “I can do it well enough, if today’s rounds were any indication. And it’s easy work to do from horseback. Oh, girls, don’t look so scandalized! It’s only temporary work.”
Sophronia and Jo shared an uneasy look.
“I’m going to save up my wages and start a business of my own. Why not? I’m a Mason. Business runs in my blood.”
Sophronia cocked one white eyebrow. “I hesitate to ask, but … exactly what kind of business are
you planning, Dovey?”
“You’ll have to wait and see.” Dovey wasn’t keen to let the cat out of the bag any time soon. Once Sophronia realized what Dovey planned, the haughty creature would set her mind to a thorough thwarting of her grand dream. Time would reveal all to Sophronia—to the whole of the city. Dovey could wait as patient as a stone until then.
And Seattle ought to be pleased when I’ve got my capital together and set my plan into motion. For all Mrs. Garfield protested so vehemently, the cribs kept filling with customers, and the whores’ pockets jingled like sleigh bells. Seattle loved fancy women, and another fancy house would be welcome.
What do you think of that, Father? Dovey wondered, as she sipped her tea with a swell of satisfaction in her chest, whether her father would feel proud of his daughter—there could hardly be a more viable business plan for Seattle than this one—or whether he’d be horrified. Probably the latter, but Dovey didn’t much care. She knew her plan was a solid one—or if not exactly solid, then at least it was a damn sight better than marrying Marion Stilton.
“Anyway,” Dovey went on, “my mother will be pleased as punch when I have an income of my own. I just know it. I’ve been writing her, you know. Her health is much improved. I think I can convince her to come to Seattle, with time.”
“So she can drop into a faint at the sight of you riding a horse?” Sophronia asked shrilly. “You’d be the death of her, Dovey!”
“I would not. Mother’s tougher than that, besides. And anyway, I can’t live my life in fear of what everybody else thinks.”
“You certainly can,” Sophronia muttered, “and you should.”
Dovey looked to Jo for assistance, but Jo only chose another piece of taffy from the cache and chewed it slowly, gazing back with a glint of amusement in her eyes.
“I’ll bring my whole family out to Seattle if I can,” Dovey said stubbornly. “Both my brothers, too. My business idea is a good one, and I believe I can earn enough income that I can give them all a fresh start—a better life than we faced in Lowell, with the cotton trade dying and the mills closed.”
“Do you really think you can?” Jo asked. She leaned forward, and all the twinkle was gone from her eye. She watched Dovey’s face with earnest curiosity. “Start up a good business, I mean—enough to support your parents and give your brothers a way to start over after the war?”
Dovey grinned. It was a fine thing, to have a friend’s confidence—or even just her interest. “I think I can, indeed.”
Sophronia snorted, but Dovey shook her head in curt dismissal. “I can, and I’ll tell you why. I see something more in this town than you do, Sophie. To you, it’s nothing but filth and grime and sin. It’s a wound that must be healed. But to me, Seattle is like a little acorn that’s just on the verge of sprouting. I feel as if I can see right into that seed, to the fine, strong roots and straight trunk and all the branching of its limbs. This town is opportunity, spread wide. And all any man or woman has to do in order to carve out a fine life is take the chance Seattle offers.”
“Well,” Sophronia finally conceded, “whatever business you plan to start, at least it isn’t working docks. I guess that’s something to be thankful for. But can’t you find some other way to get there? Tax collecting … ! It’s shameful, Dovey, just shameful to sit on a horse’s back in that … that spraddle-limbed manner!”
“The dock girls work hard, and ought to be respected for their gumption,” Dovey said.
“They certainly should not be respected. What you call gumption, I call sinning—and encouraging others to sin.” Sophronia cast an appealing glance at Jo. “Don’t you agree?”
Jo opened her mouth as if to speak, but an unexpected blush stained her cheeks. She dropped her eyes and looked hastily away, as if Sophronia’s stare burned her.
“They’re not sinners,” Dovey insisted. “They’re girls just like you and me. And what’s more, they’re my friends.”
“Your nonsense shocks me! Your true friends would never do such filthy acts. Isn’t that right, Josephine?”
Jo pressed her lips tightly together and said nothing.
“I know exactly who my true friends are,” Dovey said pointedly, “and who they are not. And you can just listen to me for once. You’re too judgmental, Sophronia. If you don’t loosen up your corset laces now and then, you’re apt to snap that stiff back of yours in two.”
“Come now, girls. Let’s not quarrel.” Jo reached for Dovey’s hand and took Sophronia’s, too, but the frosty woman pulled her fingers out of Jo’s grasp.
“The battle of morality,” Sophronia said with stiff composure, “for one’s very soul, cannot be termed merely a quarrel.” She shoved her chair back from the table and stood, chin tipped high, refusing to look at Dovey. “Now if you will excuse me, Josephine, I shall go up to my bed.”
She stalked up the stairs, leaving Dovey to fume in her wake.
Jo sighed, a sound too big and desolate to be attributed to Sophronia’s mood alone. Dovey studied her friend’s face, the dark circles under her eyes, the paleness about her mouth. Something was troubling Jo severely.
“Jo?” Dovey began.
But the older woman shook her head and rose from the table, too. “Don’t fret over me, Dovey. I’m well.”
But she didn’t sound well—nor did she look well as she paced to the kitchen window and stood gazing out at Mrs. Terry’s garden in the twilight.
Dovey wrapped up the remainder of her candies, tying the blue string carefully around the paper. She drifted quietly to Jo’s side and pressed the package into her hand.
“For you,” she said. “Because the Lord knows you can use something sweet right now.”
Jo smiled in response, but her eyes were sadder than a dirge.
All the pleasantness had gone from their evening. Dovey crept upstairs and slipped into the dark of the spare room. She found her candle by feel and struck a nearby match. The flame illuminated everything—the narrow bed; the small, round, rose-patterned rug; the oak table pressed against the wall. Just now her world was small enough to fall within the circle of one candle’s light. But soon it would grow—day by day, coin by coin—until even the sun couldn’t shine bright enough to encompass the wide, endless vistas of her ambition—her freedom.
Dovey slipped her hand under the mattress to check that her breeches were still there. It was a silly thought—there was nobody else in the Terry house save for Jo and Sophronia. But she needed the reassurance of that rough cloth beneath her fingers, needed to know that the day hadn’t been some strange, fantastical dream. She stroked the coarse weave of the trousers and recalled her mother’s jewelry, stashed away under the loose floorboard back in her bedroom in Lowell.
The truth is, Dovey admitted, I’ve always regretted selling your things, Mother. If I’d had a little more time—just one more day to prepare—I might have thought up some other way to raise the fare.
But I promise, Mother, I’ll make enough money here in Seattle—at the tax-collecting game or another job altogether—and I’ll send for you. I’ll send clear to Boston, and bring you home to me. And then I’ll buy you all the earrings and cameos and riches you could ever desire.
Of course, Dovey realized her mother might not approve of the intended venture—a luxurious cathouse draped in acres of red velvet. No, Mother wouldn’t approve at all, any more than Sophronia would. But Dovey couldn’t let that hold her back. Her future was waiting, somewhere out there beyond the circle of her candle’s flame, in the mud and cold and wide, green, youthful burst of possibility that was Seattle. It was waiting. And Dovey was ready to grab it with both hands.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
THE HOUR OF REST
The first high notes of the morning’s hymn sang out from the fiddle, filling the chapel’s close, rough-boarded space, winging up to the bare rafters. That welcome, wavering lance of emotion sliced into Sophronia’s heart with a clarity that made her tense and shiver. She rose smoothly from the hardw
ood pew and raised her voice with the rest of the small congregation.
The day is past and gone,
The woodman’s axe lies free,
And the reaper’s work is done.
Sweet is the hour of rest!
Pleasant the wind’s low sigh,
And the gleaming of the West,
And the turf whereon we lie.
Her tongue knew the words, the notes, and she sang as automatically as the cotton mills of Lowell spun thread. But her thoughts, finally loosed from their cramped confinement by the fiddle’s wail, roamed far from the hymn’s sentiment and strayed into acres of shadow.
In the days that followed her last confrontation with Dovey, Sophronia had felt as fragile and transparent as blown glass. Dovey’s parting shot—I know who my true friends are, and who they are not—reverberated in Sophronia’s mind, chasing away sleep as she tossed restlessly in her bed, haunting every moment of peace with its harsh echo.
Did Dovey’s scorn hurt Sophronia so because they had been friends—and were no longer? She couldn’t decide. She hadn’t thought of the girl as her friend—only a wayward soul in need of saving—but in that moment, when Dovey’s bright, sharp eyes had burned with a fire of derision, Sophronia had felt something snap and shatter in her heart. The voyage from Massachusetts to the West had forged a bond between them, one Sophronia hadn’t even realized was present until it burst and dissipated. Hadn’t that been the way with all Sophronia’s ties? Broken before she had known they existed—delicate threads snapped before she’d even seen where the slash of her blade would fall.
Here is my only solace, Sophronia told herself, clutching her Bible to her chest. Its old, leather cover had worn as soft as butter. In her arms, it felt as safe and familiar as home. The word of God—my only comfort.
But as the hymn ended and Sophronia sat again, turning her face up to the pulpit to hear the Lord’s word, she didn’t feel comforted. Not exactly. There was an empty place inside her, a distinct, cold void that hung low in her chest. It had always been there, since she’d been a girl—a space waiting to be filled, aching to be filled. She pictured it as the hollow of a tree. Umber brown, damp, and unwelcoming, it was a home to nothing—not the smallest thing that crept, not a single sparrow that fell.
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