“I’m with the Revenue Service,” she told the woman drily. “Here to set up Mr. Mason’s accounts. I was told I could find him at this address.”
“Oh, the Revenue Service,” the proprietress said graciously. “Of course. You must be the girl I’ve heard tell of, who rides about and shoots!” She giggled, a sound like a tiny bell tinkling. “Do come in, dear. Do come in.”
The silver-haired woman showed Dovey to the correct room, then drifted away again, still chuckling with delight over having Seattle’s scandalous lady tax collector under her own roof. Dovey paused in the empty hall, shuffling her feet against the runner rug, staring at the handle of her father’s door as if it were a serpent waiting to strike. Finally, though, she summoned the will to knock.
The door swung open, and Dovey’s heart lurched at the sudden sight of her father. Seven years had changed him little. The fringe of hair around his bald crown had turned from deep brown to pale gray, and his neatly groomed mustache was sprinkled with white. But he still held himself with the tall, confident carriage of a man who knew his business well, and his eyes still shone with the keen, unflinching assessment Dovey remembered so well.
It took only a heartbeat for him to recognize his daughter. His eyes widened, and the doorknob rattled as his grip tightened in surprise. “Doreen!”
“Hello, Father. May I come in?”
Silently, with a slow, deliberate air that spoke of caution, he stepped back to allow Dovey admittance. The private room was small, and its window looked out on a pen full of brown mules, switching their tails in the last sunshine of autumn. But the accommodations seemed comfortable enough. The bed was tidily made. A simple maple-wood washstand held a drabware pitcher and bowl, and opposite, pressed against the room’s far wall, was a small table and two chairs. Dovey pulled one away from the table and sat, gazing up at her father with an expression she hoped was calm and composed.
“I admit it’s a surprise to me,” her father said, joining her at the table, “to find you at my room’s door. But after all, this is, in part, why I came to Seattle—to find you.”
Dovey shook her head in confusion. “To find me?”
“It wasn’t my sole motivation. The western frontier is growing fast. The newspapers back east are full of reports of these booming cities, flourishing and expanding as more gold is found in the mountains and rivers.”
“But there’s no gold in Seattle, Father.” At least, none had yet been found, though God knew how many hopeful prospectors tried their luck every day in the hills above the town.
“Not here. Not yet, and maybe not ever. But in California—ah, gold has brought about a new age of prosperity! Lowell’s glory days are long gone, but Seattle is well placed as a port, with plenty of resources for conversion and export to San Francisco. I believe Seattle is just as well placed to become the next center of our nation’s prosperity. It’s bursting with resources—”
“And no Confederate rebels can cut off the supply of trees, like they did the cotton.”
“Exactly.” He smiled, and Dovey’s heart twinged with a funny little pang. She hadn’t seen her father smile in so many years. Despite her worries about his presence and the bitterness of their parting, it was a sight for weary eyes.
“I’ve made a study of the sawmill business,” Father went on. “Sawmills aren’t terribly different from cotton mills, when one looks at the basics of the operation. I was able to scrape together just enough seed money that I can give it a good start—and in a few months, I hope to bring your mother out from Boston.”
Dovey’s heart pounded, and her throat constricted with a sudden, desperate longing. “Mother … It would be lovely to see her again.”
“Here, I feel sure I can start anew—provide your mother with the kind of life she deserves. And you, Doreen.”
Dovey leaned back warily in her chair. It gave a slow, protesting squeak. “What exactly do you mean by that, Father?”
“This journey to Seattle, to restart my life as a man of business, has filled me with new purpose.” He rested one arm on the table, and for a moment Dovey saw him again as he once was—before the collapse of his cotton mills, when he had been the shining, untouchable Lord of Lowell, secure in his confidence and power. “Here, I can be the man I ought to be—a provider for my wife, the shepherd of my daughter.”
“Now, wait a moment—”
He breezed on as if Dovey hadn’t spoken. “Your mother has been so pleased to receive your letters, and has shared many of them with me. I’m glad you’ve kept yourself safe and occupied, Doreen, but this business you’ve written of—collecting taxes—it simply won’t do.”
She opened her mouth to protest, to launch some defense against his smooth, unassailable surety, but he held up a hand and continued. “I understand that you had little choice. I don’t hold that against you. Your decision to run away from Lowell was rash, perhaps, but I can’t hold this against you—this work you’ve entangled yourself in. A person must support himself somehow, after all, and at least you found honorable employment. I’ve noticed not many single women in this town have managed to do the same.”
“How gracious of you,” Dovey said flatly, “to not hold it against me.”
“As you never wrote of a marriage, or even an engagement, your mother and I have concluded that you remain unwed. Is that so?”
Dovey folded her arms and frowned at him, unwilling to confirm what he’d already ferreted out regarding her private life. Our last conversation about potential husbands didn’t go so swimmingly, Father. I won’t be led into another.
“As you are unmarried, it is my duty as your father to see to your care,” he said. His tone was not unkind, but she could detect an undeniable firmness to his words, like a building’s stone foundation—unmovable, sunk deep. “You are in need of my protection and care, and I have come not only to enter the sawmill trade but to do my sacred duty as your father.”
“That’s hogwash,” Dovey burst out. “I am in need of neither your protection nor your care. Nor do I want either, thank you very much!”
“Doreen, be sensible. Bart and Ewing have settled into their own lives, with farms in the countryside—I dare say you know as much, from correspondence with your mother. They are grown men, working on families of their own. They need nothing from me—”
“And I’m a grown woman,” she broke in. “I have managed my affairs just fine for seven years, without the benefit of your meddling.”
“A man needs to protect—to provide. It is my purpose to shelter you from the world’s harsh influence. I’ve already fallen in that duty once, Doreen, by allowing you to scamper away from your family and your duty in Lowell.”
“My duty?” Stunned, she nearly spat the word.
“It is a woman’s work to marry and make a family, to raise children and be a comfort to her husband. For seven years, I’ve tolerated your wild ways—what choice did I have, separated from you as I was? But now that I am coming into my own once more, I will be on hand to give you the guidance you need—”
“I need no guidance! I declare, I’ve got a better head for business than you have, Father. You think your sawmill is the way to earn a place in Seattle? You’re wrong. I’ve a business plan of my own—one that can’t fail in this town’s economy. And with another month or two of working, I’ll have all the capital I need to make a strong start.”
Pleased with the truth of her boast, she crossed one knee over the other, a shockingly impudent gesture. Father’s face paled, and his eyes flashed down to her hem—to the cuffs of her riding trousers, now indecently exposed.
His lips pressed tightly together, and his mustache quivered with his barely suppressed disapproval.
“I had heard tales,” he said quietly, “that a young woman worked for the Revenue Service and rode about town dressed like a perfect hoyden, in trousers of all things. I’d hoped the Revenue Service had some other girl in its employ—I’d all but convinced myself that my own daughter, my sweet Dor
een, could not possibly stoop to such inappropriate behavior. But now I see the error of my judgment.”
“Now you see your error, indeed,” Dovey said. She felt a childish urge to pull her petticoats up higher, to show off more of her shocking trousers. But she kept her arms folded resolutely and met her father’s eye, unflinching.
The color returned to his face, as did the sly, considering glint in his eye. “You say you’ve saved up capital?”
Dovey swallowed hard. “What’s that to you?”
“Funding for a business is hard to come by.”
“Not if one toils for seven years, and scrimps and saves.”
“Join your money to mine, Doreen. The new sawmill will be all the more successful with a robust initial investment.”
Her mouth fell open. For a moment she could not breathe, let alone speak. Finally she managed a small, offended sound, half gasp, half disbelieving laugh. “I most certainly will not join my capital to yours!”
Father smiled at her—not the warm expression she had seen only minutes before, the one she had looked upon with poignant welcome. This smile was cold, considering—the grin of a savvy businessman who meets an opponent at the negotiation table, and knows that he has won.
“You don’t have a choice,” he said matter-of-factly. “You’re an unmarried woman. It is my right, as your father, to take you in hand and find you a husband. And when you are properly wedded, whatever estate you possess will belong to your husband by law.”
A cold void filled Dovey’s chest. Is it true? Can he possibly be right? No—no, Lord, it can’t be so! Her seven years of working for Virgil had provided her with an admirable knowledge of the Territory’s tax laws. But she had no experience at all with this sort of law. For all Dovey knew, her father might have a legal claim to her fate—to her marriage, to her future and happiness. And what he said about her money might be just as horribly, depressingly accurate.
Dovey met his stare, willing her body not to tremble, her eyes not to fill with tears. You are better at business than he, she told herself. It wasn’t your mills that failed back in Lowell. And it’s not you who thinks to compete with Henry Yesler in the sawmill game. Think, Dovey. Think, and negotiate. Don’t cave to his tactics.
What she needed at this moment was time—time to research the Territory’s laws, to determine what precisely her legal situation was—and how she might thwart her father’s scheme once and for all. If I can just put off this idea of his—another blasted arranged marriage!—for a few months. Or even a few weeks. Surely that would be enough time to arm herself with knowledge, to work out some legal evasion of her father’s plan.
But how could she hope to satisfy his concerns over her “improper” behavior? She suspected that merely quitting the tax-collecting job would not be enough to satisfy him, to delay the marriage he must now be doubly keen to arrange.
Then a bolt of inspiration struck her, so hard and fast she lurched forward on her seat as if stung on the bottom by a bee.
“Father, perhaps you’re right. I’m twenty-three, after all. Maybe it is time I married and settled down.”
He stroked his mustache with a wary hand, but his words were eager enough, half convinced. “I am glad to see your good sense returning.”
“But as you noted”—Dovey hung her head—“I’ve developed something of a reputation these past seven years. I don’t think any man will have me.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that, Doreen. I know how men’s minds work, especially when it comes to business affairs. Any sensible man will be happy to take you for a wife, if it means a robust share in a strong new sawmill venture.”
It was an effort not to skewer her father with a look of daggers. Traded off as an investment—just the sort of romance every girl dreams of. But Dovey managed to keep her face demurely, even remorsefully, downcast.
“I do know Seattle somewhat better than you, Father, if you’ll pardon my saying so.”
He made no reply, and Dovey, encouraged, spoke on. “Women who have made a … a certain reputation for themselves don’t find matches in this town—not under any circumstances, or for any inducement. There are two types of women in Seattle—the low and the high. No low woman is fit for marriage.” She looked up at him suddenly, clasping her hands in a display of desperation. “I fear I erred terribly in working as I’ve done. I didn’t think of my future—only of the present moment. But I don’t think my reputation is gone entirely—not yet. There may be just enough time to save me, Father.”
“Nonsense, Doreen. As I said, any man of business—”
“But just think: if my reputation were to be restored, and I were known in this town as a reformed woman, of true moral character, I could attract a much better husband.”
He stroked his mustache again. “Go on.”
“There are some men in this town who have grown quite wealthy. And a few of them are still unmarried. If we could attract the attention of that sort of man, think how your business could flourish!”
His answering smile was slow, but there was no mistaking the approving glint in his eye.
“Naturally, Doreen, I’d be thrilled to see my only daughter married into a wealthy family. But as you say, your reputation … How can we overcome it?’
“I do know a way. There’s a certain house downtown—near Skid Road, on the southern end of Seattle. It’s a reform home of sorts, for fallen women.”
Father shook his head. “Certainly not! I cannot have anyone thinking you’re in need of that kind of reform. If anyone were to suspect that you’d worked as a dock girl, Doreen, we would have no chance.”
“We can make it clear that I’m there only in service—to work for the aid of fallen women. I know the proprietress of the home well.” Too well, Lord preserve me. “She is a well-respected woman in Seattle society, known to have unfailing morals, the very highest possible character. If she tells the city that I’m working at her side, to tame my wild ways and gain the skills I’ll need as a good wife, then everybody will believe her. Sophronia Brandt never lies.”
He considered the idea in silence, gazing out the window at the penned mules while he went on slowly petting his graying whiskers. Finally he said, “And you’re sure your reputation will be mended, if you take up work at this house for fallen women?”
“Certain,” she said. “My reputation will be washed sparkling clean. My stock will rise. I’ll look like the very wisest investment in all of Seattle, Father—and so will you.”
“Very well,” he finally said. “Get yourself into this place, and once you’re recognized as a woman who has mended her ways, I’ll set about finding a proper husband for you. Let us hope the process doesn’t take long. The sooner I can start my sawmill, the better for all the Mason family.”
“It shouldn’t be a lengthy wait, I should think,” Dovey said. How long can it truly take to scour the lawbooks and find some way out of this pickle for once and for all?
CHAPTER THIRTY
SILVER DOLLARS
Dovey disappeared through the kitchen door, balancing a tray laden with cold cuts of smoked ham, a roundel of cheese, and a tureen filled with steaming onion soup. Sophronia heard the girl speaking cheerily to the women at the dining table—the residents of the reformatory home—as she laid out their midday meal. In moments Dovey was back again, alert and focused as she turned her attention to washing the cutting board and tidying up the kitchen.
Sophronia and Dovey orbited each other as they set the kitchen in order, each woman maintaining a regular distance from the other, maintaining out of long habit their caution and mistrust. But as Sophronia watched the young woman’s efficient work, she surprised herself with the stirrings, deep in the most inaccessible reaches of her heart, of a grudging respect for Dovey.
She had sheltered at Sophronia’s home for fallen women for two weeks now. Sophronia had reluctantly extended an arm of protection over Dovey in her time of need, certain she would be more trouble than she was worth. Howeve
r, Sophronia had quickly realized that she’d come to appreciate Dovey’s presence in the house for fallen women. The former prostitutes who lived with Sophronia—poor creatures who had aged out of their line of work, or who had become so disfigured by illness or accidents that they could no longer attract business in the midst of the stiff competition along Skid Road—seemed to show greater respect for Sophronia because Dovey worked by her side. Dovey was well known as a friend to fallen women, and her residence at the house gave Sophronia some legitimacy—and certainly added hope for the future of her mission.
And Dovey herself had changed since Sophronia had spoken to her last. Seven years of work had apparently mellowed Dovey’s character, tempering her wild ways and garnering her a bit more sense and forethought. Tax collecting was far too uncouth, and riding a horse entirely too vulgar an occupation for a lady. And Sophronia had her suspicions that Dovey’s boss, the notorious tax man Virgil Cooper, might be slipping Dovey more than just a cut of the collections. Men of his rough, roguish type could never be trusted with a woman’s virtue. But despite the vapor of scandal that seemed to follow Dovey wherever she went, Sophronia had to admit that the young woman seemed to have benefitted, on the whole, from her years of work. Far be it from Sophronia to withhold praise where it was due.
“How do things stand with your father?” Sophronia asked as she swept the kitchen floor.
Dovey, stacking clean saucers in the cupboard, tossed her head. “If Jo is right about suffrage and the law, then it won’t matter one whit how things stand with my father.”
“So, then, your father hasn’t given up his plan?”
“To force me into a marriage so he can steal my money? He’s still at it.”
“No one can force you to marry against your will, Dovey.”
Dovey laid the last saucer in its place and shut the cupboard with a sigh. “Common wisdom says so—”
“The law says so; women don’t need the vote to gain protection.”
Mercer Girls Page 31
