by Caryl McAdoo
“You’re very pretty, Francis.”
She put her hands on her hips, glared hard and fumed.
For a breath Mary wasn’t quite sure, then she grinned at the little whirling dervish. “Fine, Shorty it is.”
“Good.” The corners of the girl’s mouth turned up like she’d just won some great victory. Poor little thing had no feminine graces. A month with her sisters would do wonders.
“How long has your mother been gone?”
“The real one or that mail-order lady?”
“Your only mother.”
“She died before we come west. Cholera got her. Pa said I was only knee high.”
Not bigger than Shorty was, that could have been last month, but Mary understood.
“Why don’t you and Mister Jethro live together?”
“Heavens, child. Why would you ask such a thing?”
“Ain’t you two married?”
“Absolutely not.” Mary caught Mattie grinning like a kid with a whole chocolate pie. “Whatever caused you to think such?”
The girl frowned. “The way you bossed him around. How come he lets you then if you ain’t?”
“I didn’t boss…Was I? Mercy, what can I say? Long story, Shorty.”
“He is right smart looking, and you’re so pretty. Pa says pretty men make powerful good looking young’uns.”
Mattie giggled then covered her mouth. Little miss went back to the mirror and twirled two circles. She fluffed her skirt. “Sure don’t look like no boy, do I?”
“No, you sure don’t. You’re lovely.”
She wheeled around, her lips pursed. “Pa’s new lady, she called me Francy some, you like that better than Shorty?”
“Yes ma’am, that’s a very feminine name.”
“Good, I’ll be Francy then, unless Mister Risen wants to call me something else.”
Long day, but Jethro figured a good one, except no one even knew Amos’s uncle, much less had any ideas where the man had been or gone. The boy cleaned up fine, but nothing like his sister.
If he hadn’t known her from the right height and being in Mary’s company, he wouldn’t have recognized the girl.
The little lady sure had taken to Mary, but who wouldn’t? Kind, sweet, soft-spoken—well, some of the times—and beautiful. But something was wrong with his reluctant partner.
Besides her obvious pleasure in the girl’s transformation, a sadness—or worse a pain—lurked in the depth of her eyes.
That night after he finished off his day with a long catch-up visit with Moses and Lanelle, he knelt beside his bed and recited the prayer Jesus taught his disciples. “… and glory forever and ever. Amen.” He exhaled slowly. “Thank you for putting it in Mary’s heart to take in little Francy, Lord.”
An image of the Mercantile’s proprietor strolled across his mind’s eye. Had he just replaced his desire for Meiko with a love for the beautiful widow? Did he even know the difference?
He’d wanted Meiko so bad it hurt, but he didn’t ache for Mary like that. He longed to be with her, please her, even dreamed about her, but it seemed more a slow burn.
As though required to wait for her.
Some nights, he dreamed of him and her being together on the porch, so old that about all either could do was sit the rockers and watch their grandbabies’ babies play in the yard.
His newest love was a different story. He knew exactly how he felt about Francy from the moment the Lord revealed the truth to him; he’d wanted nothing but to protect the little darling.
Somewhat the same as Mary, maybe even more. But how could he keep the widow from harm with her hating him? He wished he knew what he’d done to offend her.
Sure loved that expression on her face when he pulled the little girl’s hat off.
“What’s wrong with her, Father? Is she still in love with Caleb? Still mourning? How could that scoundrel have seduced both her and Lanelle? Help me, Lord, and show me the way.”
Afternoon of the following day, after quizzing the last storeowner in town, Amos put voice to Jethro’s concerns. “I suppose he just ain’t in San Francisco. Never knew for sure he was, but figured it was my best shot. Sorry rascal. Why’d he say he were coming here when he weren’t?”
“Don’t have a clue. Any ideas?”
“No, sir. Guess it falls to me alone. If me and Sis can impose a few more days, I’ll see about finding work.”
Jethro put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You can work at the Mercantile, or come on back up to the mine with me if you’d rather. I was referring to your uncle, if you’d thought of anywhere else we should look? Is there family back home we could write to?”
“No, sir. None that’d matter. If I can work at the mine, why we been hunting my kin? Thought you was looking to get rid of us.”
Jethro laughed. “No. What say we go see what Francy and Miss Mary are up to?”
“Does it hurt?”
Mary rocked. “Does what hurt, sugar?”
Francy pointed at Joshua with her piece of chalk. “Him sucking on you so hard. I don’t think I’d like it at all.”
The girl’s frankness proved a joy, if not a little uncomfortable at times.
“No, it doesn’t hurt at all. Mis’ess Wingate told me that after the babies cut teeth, some might bite, but no problems yet. Joshua always gets seconds, but he’s a little pig compared to Susannah.”
Returning to writing her letters, she made a backward lower case ‘D’ then looked up again. “How come Miss Lanelle don’t feed her own baby?”
“Another long story, I’m afraid.”
“Is ten old enough?”
“For what, sweetheart?”
“You say long story; Amos says he’ll tell me when I’m older. I’ll be ten in the spring. Is that old enough to hear them long stories?”
The baby took one last sloppy suck then flopped his head back and gave her his contented little grin. She loved him true, but hated it he reminded her so of his father. She buttoned her dress and studied on her new charge.
Poor little thing had been through so much in the last month, but even more before that. Certainly no life for a child; living in a tent without enough food and a step- mail-ordered mother, while her father hunted the elusive mother lode.
“So is ten old enough?”
“Maybe. Exactly what is it you’re wanting to know?” Had those words just come out of her mouth?
Francy’s lips thinned. She stiffened her back and looked her straight in the eye. “For one thing, what’s a sportin’ lady?”
Mercy, where had the child even heard that term? “Why is it you want to know that, sweetheart?”
“ ’Cause Amos said if they found out I was a girl, they’d make me be a sportin’ lady. So when Pa died, he cut off some of his old britches, and I became his little brother. I kind of liked it, though. Being a boy. Got to get dirty and stay that way. Worked hard, but it was fun.” She grinned and held her hands out. “Can I hold him?”
“Really? I don’t think I’d like being a boy.” She rocked forward and held the baby out toward her. “Sure you can. You’ve got to support his head. Put him on your shoulder; he needs to be burped.”
“I can do it.”
Passing off the baby, Mary explained why babies needed to expel the air they’d swallowed. “If you don’t, they have a tummy ache. When I was about your age, I had to help pick cotton in Texas. You ever pick any lint?”
“No, ma’am, never did. Always lived in town before Pa came out west for the gold. My gramps was a farmer though. He grew vegetables for Gram.”
While the girl patted the baby’s back, Mary spun one of her favorite childhood stories—the day she finally picked her weight in cotton. Francy seemed to enjoy the tale. Hopefully, she’d not press her about the evil the Lord had saved her from.
The girl’s company proved so enjoyable. Evenings, after Mattie and Lanelle settled in with their husbands, had grown a bit lonely of late.
Joshua burped loud, spi
tting up some of his dinner on the child’s shoulder. Francy laughed. “That was loud! He had lots of air in there. Good thing you threw that cloth over my nightgown.”
Joining in the laughter, Mary rocked forward to help. “That’s why they call it a burp rag. Serves him right for being a piglet.” She wiped him clean then wrapped him in his blanket. “Would you like to carry him over to his mother?”
“Sure. Then I’ll come right back. Can I sleep with you and Susannah again?”
“I don’t see any reason why not. You sure can.” Mary smiled, hoping her relief wasn’t too apparent. The last thing she wanted to do was explain the facts of life to the innocent child.
Sooner or later, someone would have to, and it might full well fall to her. She remembered how nervous Rebecca had been when she spilled the beans.
Made her miss home.
She needed to get that letter off and tell them about Susannah.
The next day’s morning started slow, then a little after dinner the Mercantile got exceptionally busy. After helping a young farmer pick out two nice bolts of cloth with matching thread, buttons, and ribbons for his pregnant wife, she carried his selections to the counter.
Behind it, she scanned her customers. A man stood inside her door looking rather bored and somewhat aloof.
Dressed in a grey suit with a matching bowler, he wasn’t a miner for sure, but no fop either. Too old for that. Out of place for certain. She finished with the farmer then walked over to the stranger.
“May I help you with something, sir?”
He smiled a rather pleasant grin, missing two bottom teeth, but hid it well. “Yes, m’lady, you certainly might if you happen to be Mis’ess Mary Wheeler. You’re a fit for the description. Might you be, ma’am?”
She loved his British accent. “Yes, sir, I’m Mis’ess Wheeler. How may I help?”
He stepped toward and extended a small envelope. Edward’s neat scrawl flipped her heart. She took the offering and tore it open, trying not to appear too wild with it.
Mary dearest,
Join me for supper at the Union Hotel. Please come, I have a surprise.
Love, Edward
She looked up. “That’s all?”
“With your consent, m’lady, I’ll call for you at half past six. The Union is less than a twenty-minute carriage ride. Mister Clinton said his last meeting should be over by seven if not earlier. Reservations have been made.”
She covered her mouth with her hand, and read the note again. He signed it with love. Why hadn’t he come himself? Directly? As soon as he arrived back in San Francisco? No matter his closing, being ‘sent for’ irritated her.
She didn’t know what to say.
The Union was such a fancy hotel.
Did she have time for a bath?
What about her hair?
And he had a surprise?
Of course he had a surprise. Her engagement ring! He intended to propose at the Union, planned a wonderful evening to ask her. A good thing. Far as she was concerned, plenty enough time had passed and she was more than ready to say yes.
She needed to practice her answer.
Her heart beat double time.
“Six-thirty, you say?”
“Yes, m’lady.”
The man looked harmless enough, and Edward wouldn’t have sent him for her if he didn’t trust him completely. She’d be in a public place. Even her father couldn’t say a word about her having supper with Edward there.
She smiled at the man. “I’ll be ready then.”
He bowed slightly, touched his hat’s little brim, then marched out.
Chapter Nineteen
“Here, take him.”
Jethro looked over the newspaper he read. Francy held out baby Joshua; he laid the rag down on the table and took the boy. Even the little girl thought she should tell him what to do.
“Be right back.” The girl turned and ran out the front door, her new shoes clicking across the floorboards. He cradled the boy in the crook of his arm. What was going on? Where was Moses or Lanelle?
Shortly, the young lady returned with Susannah and took the chair across from him. “We’re watching the babies until Miss Lanelle gets here.”
“Why?”
“On account Miss Mary said.” Was that defiance in her eyes, as though her new mother-stand-in ruled the world? “She’s getting ready. Going to a real fancy supper at the Union Hotel. Miss Lanelle and Miss Mattie are helping her.”
At least the weaker gender spilled their guts at the drop of a hat.
“Is that so?”
The young lady shot him a knowing smirk then leaned back and nuzzled the baby. “Are you my good girl?” Almost the exact voice Mary used doing the same thing.
Apparently, the ex-boy had determined being a sissy girl a perfectly acceptable condition, at least until her big brother crossed her. To hear him to tell it, she packed a wallop that belied her diminutive size.
Jethro’s stomach soured. That fancy man must be back in town, the one Moses said was building a house up on Nob Hill. Why was Mary letting that fob turn her head?
“Mister Clinton’s carriage will be here at half past six.” Another knowing smirk, the little girl reveled in her wellspring of information.
Realization smacked him hard. “Edward Clinton?”
Francy nodded. “His man’s man is coming to fetch her.” She leaned in, curled up the corner of her top lip. “What is that anyway?”
“Hired servant, dresses nice and acts snotty, like his employer.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? And why’re you all mad all of a sudden?”
“Never mind, it’s a long story.”
She snorted. “People are always saying me that. Miss Mary promised when I’m ten, I’ll be old enough to hear all the long stories.”
Oh, really? Jethro took note to guard his words around this one from now on. “What’s Amos doing?”
“He’s helping Hank and Mister Virgil restock, sold a lot of goods today. Miss Mattie says we’re eating over there tonight. Said she’s got plenty enough for all of us.”
“Have you seen Mister Moses?”
“No, Miss Lanelle said he was still out hunting them a milk cow.”
“Well, since you appear to know everything, am I supposed to bring anything for supper?”
“Don’t know that. Want me to go find out for you?”
Jethro fished out his pocket watch with his free hand, six twenty-three. “No let’s wait.”
“Ain’t you worried?”
“About what?”
She only answered with that smirk of hers. He stood, put the timepiece back, grabbed his chair and eased it closer to the window, balancing the baby the whole way like an old hand.
Mary took the driver’s hand and stepped out. The man gestured toward the front door. “The dining room is to the left, m’lady. The staff is expecting you.”
The Union Hotel lobby dripped with crystal chandeliers and red velvet, but paled in comparison to the newer Palace. If that establishment’s interior matched its ornate exterior, maybe she and Edward should stay there on their wedding night.
The hotel’s host—what was that French word, concierge?—greeted her then escorted her to a table in a back corner.
No one in the crowded room seemed to notice or care she arrived unescorted. She got a few leers, but she got those everywhere. A waiter appeared, set two fluted wine glasses on the table, and held out a bottle in front of her. She smiled. He poured each glass half full.
Where was Edward?
Her cheeks warmed a bit. A sip of wine would be nice, but not by herself. Hadn’t she read somewhere that wine need to breathe to obtain its full flavor? How crazy was that?
“Mary, my love.” Edward took the seat directly across from her. “What a pleasure to see you again. Thank you for coming.”
His velvet baritone melted away her irritation. His love, he’d called her. She smiled. “You’re welcome. I was beginning to think you wer
e never coming back.” She stopped everything else she wanted to say, and left it at that. He was here now. Her wait almost over.
He held his glass out. “To successes.”
She touched her goblet to his. Successes, not love? She let a drip of wine pass her lips then set the glass down. “I take it your trip and meeting this evening went well?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
A different waiter appeared and placed a plate in front of her, a few small round pieces with some thin curly fingers, all fried crisp adorned the fancy china.
“I took the liberty, hope you like it.”
She tried one. “What is it?”
“Calamari, fried.”
It had an unusual flavor, one she’d never tasted. She swallowed another bite. “And what is calamari?”
“Fried squid. A delicacy of the Mediterranean.”
“A sea creature?” A wave of nausea set her stomach amiss. She grabbed the wine and drank more than a sip. When enough time and conversation passed, she scooted the uneaten appetizer aside.
Edward cleaned his plate of the little creatures. Would it be polite to offer him hers? Before she decided, the waiter returned and, thankfully, removed it.
Next, the man set another plate in front of her that had only half-a-palm-sized piece of gravy-covered meat and an even smaller display of mixed vegetables. They appeared hand arranged with an artist’s touch.
Lovely, but she smiled at how long the effort must have taken. At least she could tell what they were. The vegetables were perfectly steamed and seasoned.
Waiting until Edward was served and the waiter left, she ventured a question she hoped wouldn’t offend her fiancé-to-be. “I hate to sound suspect, but what meat is this?”
He laughed. A joyful sound indeed. She’d have no problem listening to that sound the rest of her life. “I noticed you didn’t finish your calamari.” He rattled off an oriental name, then grinned. “It’s beef, cow, but a very special breed from Japan.”
