“Good morning. I’m prepared for my examination. Is there anything I need to do before we begin?” He reached into the pocket of his suit coat, pulled out the envelope containing the examination fee, and held it out toward Whitmore. “Here you go. Thirty-five dollars. Payment in full.” It had taken him a long while to save up the fee.
Whitmore glanced toward the other men, then nodded and accepted the envelope. “Have a seat, Mr. Morse.” He gestured toward a torturous-looking wooden chair, one obviously designed for the express purpose of making its occupant feel awkward and horribly ill at ease.
Willie nodded, took his seat, and did his best to find a comfortable position.
In the corners, steam hissed from a radiator. Despite the warmth of the lovely spring day, a chill emanated from the three men facing him. The examiners turned toward him with hard-set faces, their posture rigid, their bearing stiff.
“I’m ready to begin,” Willie announced, annoyed by the delaying tactics the men were using. Another form of intimidation. He would not let them get the best of him. He’d done his homework, had learned all he needed to know.
“All right. We’ll proceed.” Whitmore slowly rose. With measured steps, he approached the examination chair. Glancing down at a sheaf of papers in his hand, he cleared his throat. “What, Mr. Morse, is the basis for law in the state of Colorado?”
“The State Constitution,” Willie replied, barely able to restrain a laugh. He’d expected the examination to be grueling. “Voted and approved,” he added, “on July 1, 1876. Officially signed and proclaimed by President Grant on August 1.” From the corner of the room came the tick-tick-tock of a large wood-encased clock. Its pendulum swung steadily from side to side.
One by one, each of the examiners fired questions like salvos from heavy artillery. Willie fired back, each answer swift and certain.
The pendulum continued its steady rhythm, the sound growing louder in Willie’s ears.
More questions.
More answers.
“Discuss the validity of the claim…”, “Would such ordinance be considered legal…”, “What possible constitutional challenges might arise…”
Sweat beaded on Willie’s forehead, at the back of his neck, his underarms. Even as he responded to each new challenge, he kept memories of Hattie Mae in his head, imagined her there beside him, encouraging him, spurring him on to give it his best.
Of course, she’d have lots of lovely platitudes to offer, as well.
He finished the last question with a triumphant exhalation and rose to his feet. He could hardly wait to find Hattie and share his news. Unlike his mother, she would be truly proud.
“What happens now?” he asked, reaching for his hat and the suit-jacket he’d removed. “Are there papers to sign? Documents to file with the court?” He should know all the procedures, but his mind had suddenly gone blank. His head felt a lot like a coal bucket—once filled, now emptied.
Whitmore coughed. His mouth quirked into a peculiar shape. “Let me have a word or two with my colleagues. Just sit down, Mr. Morse.”
He nodded but chuckled. “You don’t have to be so formal, George.” Willie looked around. No way would he return to that damned, discomfiting examination chair. He noticed a more commodious-looking seat and backed himself into it. Letting out a heavy exhalation, he leaned back and crossed one leg over the other. All the while, he stared at the hard wooden chair, glad to have the ordeal over at last.
The three men withdrew to the far corner. From Willie’s vantage point, he could hear nothing but vague mumbles, could see only their old heads bobbing up and down. Occasionally one of them—usually George Whitmore—craned his neck around to give Willie a quick once-over, then like ostriches, their heads went down again.
Willie drummed his fingers on a small side-table, impatient to be done and on his way. Thoughts raced through his mind of all he must do. A plan had taken shape in his mind. First, while in Denver, he would go straight to the foundling home where Hattie had been raised. Maybe she’d contacted someone there. He would inquire, as well, at Miss Brundage’s Female Academy, perhaps locate some of Hattie’s friends or fellow students. As a last resort, he would inquire about homes in the area, those places where unwed women could go in their time of need. Although he’d contacted several previously, no one had been willing to divulge any information. If he paid a call at the homes, maybe he’d stand a better chance of determining whether or not Hattie Mae was among the residents.
But, she would not be, of course. Willie knew Hattie would never give up their baby.
Still, someone, somewhere, would have the answers he needed. Somebody could tell him where Hattie had gone.
“Mr. Morse?”
Willie jumped to his feet when attorney Henry Marshall approached, a sorrowful expression hanging on his long face, like a sheet thrown out to dry.
“Yes, sir?”
The horse-faced man shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Morse, but in all good conscience, this board can’t grant you a license to practice law.”
“What? Why the hell not?” The suddenness of the man’s declaration brought the worst out in Willie’s speech. “I answered all the questions, and by God, I know my answers were correct. Give me one instance where my response was wrong,” he demanded, springing from the chair and jabbing a finger toward Marshall.
“Willie, get hold of yourself.” Whitmore quickly stepped between the two. He placed strong hands at his shoulders and forced him to look his way. “I know this is difficult for you. I know how hard you’ve worked, but argument won’t do you any good right now. It won’t change the decision.”
“But, why? You can’t deny me my rights. I’ve done all that was asked of me. I paid you your frickin’ fee.” He leaned around Whitmore’s bulky frame to peer at the other two men. “You owe me.”
Marshall shook his head. “There’s more to passing a legal examination, Mr. Morse, than paying a fee. More to it than coming up with the right answers to all the questions. For what it’s worth, yes, you scored well. You clearly demonstrated your knowledge of the law.”
“I deserve my license. I’ve worked hard for this.”
“Yes, indeed, you have. Frankly,” Mr. Marshall said, “I never expected you to pass. Unfortunately, you did, and that’s put me in a very awkward situation.” His gaze bored into Willie. “As the head of this examination board, I have final say in who receives a license and who doesn’t. I can’t do it, Mr. Morse. In light of your father’s criminal actions and his flight from justice—”
“I’m not my father.”
“No, but you’re his son, and in all good conscience, I can’t admit you to the practice of law in the state of Colorado.”
Willie blinked, dumbfounded, unable to utter another word, unable to even think of anything to say. Finally, he swallowed, and turned once again toward George Whitmore. The man would take his side, would speak up for him, and would insist that the license would be issued.
But Whitmore shook his head and remained silent.
“Well, then, I see now how it is.” Willie grabbed his hat. “Thank you, gentlemen, for your time.”
* * * *
Staying sober, Willie discovered over the next few weeks, proved far easier than he’d expected. He strolled along the streets of Sunset each day, keeping his chin up, his shoulders back, his head held high. Whatever jobs he could get, he took, and he thought often of Hattie’s insistence that humility was a virtue and pride a sin.
He didn’t quite agree. A man needed both pride and humility, he figured, in reasonable amounts. If a man did good, worked hard, and gave his best each day, he had the right to feel a bit of pride in his accomplishments. Holding fast to that belief gave him the strength to go on, to keep walking even when townsfolk glanced sidelong at him or put their hands over their mouths and bent their heads together to whisper as he passed.
Although the sting of rejection weighed heavily upon him, he got through the long days and the lonely nights. Now, yet anoth
er week had come and gone. Willie still had no leads on Hattie’s whereabouts, and as he made his way home from a tiresome afternoon of packing and delivering orders for Asa and Martha Taylor, he resolved to take more drastic action. Pinkerton agents charged dearly for their services, but locating Hattie Mae would be worth any cost. Each time he got paid for jobs he performed, Willie put back every cent he could. He had nearly enough, he reckoned, to contact a private investigator.
Buoyed by thoughts of finding his runaway love, Willie ignored the pain in his leg and bounded up the stairs at Tansy Godwin’s boarding house. He drew up short as he stepped into the parlor.
“Mama, what’s wrong?”
She sat sobbing, a handkerchief pressed to her cheek, and Mrs. Godwin at her side murmuring consoling words. Willie’s chest tightened.
Letitia Morse glanced up but barely seemed to see her son. She buried her face in her hands and bawled.
“If you must know…” Tansy Godwin straightened and threw a harsh look in Willie’s direction, as if whatever awful calamity had happened must surely be his fault. “It’s your father.”
The sudden thudding in his heart nearly knocked him off his feet. Struggling to keep his balance, he couldn’t speak. His eyes widened, and an awful pain throbbed inside his brain.
Only when his mother once again lifted her head and gave a slight nod did he find his voice.
“My father? What are you talking about?” His lips and tongue felt thick and swollen. He barely got out the words. “You know where he is?”
Of their own volition, Willie’s big hands clenched into tight fists. Every muscle tensed. Every limb stiffened.
“He’s in Denver, he’s dying, and we need to go see him.”
Any one of those three statements alone would have been enough to set Willie back on his heels. To have his mother throw all of them at him at once proved too much. He stumbled blindly through the room, knocking teacups from the table and long-stemmed roses from a china vase. The side table beside the settee crashed to the floor.
Tansy came after him, arm raised, finger wagging. “Watch what you’re doing, and don’t think of running out. You’ve made a mess, and I’ll thank you to clean it up.”
“Yes, ma’am. Of course.” He stopped, swallowed back the emotions threatening to choke him, and slowly turned to face his weeping mother. “Denver, you say? How did you find out?” He couldn’t address the issue of his father dying, nor could he consider the possibility of seeing him again.
“A message came by post a short time ago, but never mind that.” Tansy pointed downward to the tea spilling from her delicate porcelain cups. The rug would be stained, and she’d demand he pay for cleaning it. Rightly so, of course. “That mess won’t go away of its own, you know. The sooner you get busy, the less damage there’ll be.”
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Of course.” Willie sank down to his knees.
“I’ll get a few old rags,” Tansy offered. With a swish of her ruffled skirts, she exited the room, leaving Willie alone with his mother.
“What can you tell me?” he asked, moving closer and placing a hand on hers. “How long has he been in Denver? Does anyone else know he’s come back? And where is he? The house…” He blinked back unshed tears. It still hurt to think of his childhood home sold at auction, to know that new owners had now moved in. They’d probably stripped off all the old wallpaper, taken out the carpeting, torn down the velvet draperies with their ornate pulls. Everything he’d ever known and loved was gone.
His mother, still too deeply immersed in her sorrow and tears, said nothing. Willie turned his attention to the fallen roses, their scarlet petals splattered like drops of blood. A thorn pricked him as he gathered the broken stems. Willie winced and stuck his thumb to his mouth, sucking at the flesh.
“Your father has surrendered. He’s turned himself in, and he’s being cared for in a federal facility.” Without warning, his mother suddenly shot to her feet. “Get up, William. Take me to your father now.” As though she’d been in a cursed spell and had suddenly broken free, she whirled into furious motion. “I’ll get my cape. Hire a buggy for us. We’ll leave as soon as possible.”
She’d nearly reached the door before Willie could scramble to his feet. He dashed after her, catching her up with an arm around her waist.
“Mama, slow down.”
“But, why?” She wriggled around to face him. Her tear-filled eyes seemed to overpower her thin, lined face. “Your father needs us. If we wait…” She shuddered in her son’s arms. “It might be too late. We must go now.”
“I don’t want to see him. I can’t. I won’t.” He knew how deeply his words wounded. “I’ll drive you to Denver, but I won’t stay. I’ll put you up at a hotel there.”
“How will you afford it?”
“I’ve got some money saved.” Money he’d meant to invest in finding Hattie. He sighed and grabbed for his cap. “I’ll go to the livery and hire a buggy.”
She reached for his hands. “Thank you. I wish you’d reconsider. Your father wants to see you.”
“I don’t care what he wants. I have to do what’s best for me. I can’t see him, Mother. Nothing you say will change how I feel.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
“Do you have the letter?” he asked. “Maybe I should read it.”
His mother gestured toward a small desk. “Yes, please do. Oh, there was a letter for you, as well.”
Willie’s heart jumped into his throat. “Is it from Hattie?”
“No, dear. I didn’t recognize the name, but the letter was posted in California. Do you know someone there?”
He shook his head, his hopes crushed again. “I’m sure it’s nothing important.” He strolled to the desk, found his father’s letter and stuck it in his pocket. He would read it later. Glancing down, he read the name on the second envelope. He’d never heard of Mrs. Virginia Quisenberry.
“Let’s go, Mother.”
He strode across the room, then stopped. Whoever Mrs. Quisenberry was, she must have had good reason to write if her letter had traveled all the way from California. Willie reached for the enveloped and tucked it into his pocket, too.
Chapter Seventeen
San Francisco
Hattie moved slowly along the narrow, crowded street. Her swollen ankles brought excruciating pain with each step, and the constant crush of pedestrians pushing around her made her wish more than once that she’d never come to San Francisco.
A city big enough to lose herself in. Oh, yes. Big enough to swallow her up whole, along with her baby, along with her dreams, along with any prospects for future happiness.
Life now was about survival—for herself and for her child.
Thank goodness for Mrs. Quisenberry and her generosity. Hattie adored the kind-hearted woman and felt awful that she could do so little for her. Although Mrs. Quisenberry insisted that the companionship Hattie provided was payment enough for her room and board, it wasn’t nearly enough. Friendship didn’t put food on the table. Pleasant conversations did not pay for goods or services. In truth, Hattie was a burden.
Day after day, she went out in search of work, paying no heed to the shocked looks as she marched through the business district. She ignored the harsh comments she so often heard as she passed by, remarks about how indecent it was for a woman to show herself in such a state. Hurtful words would follow her now all the days of her life. Best she get used to it.
Her search for gainful employment fared no better than her previous searches for a room. Always there were questions, impersonal voices prying into her affairs, asking precisely why a woman so big with child would be looking to work.
Always she told the truth.
Always she was turned away.
Perhaps it would be wiser to lie. Many other women had done the same under similar circumstances. Hattie could easily make up a story, fabricate a father for her child, give him a tragic end, and maybe garner a bit of sympathy for herself and her plight. She
could even visit one of the many pawn shops along the wharf and for a few pennies pick up a slender band to claim as a wedding ring.
Hattie stared down as she continued on.
She would not bring herself to the point of untruth. If she had learned nothing else in her young life, she most certainly had come to value honesty above all else. If she allowed society to take that from her, it would mark the end of her. To destroy the truth was far more serious in nature than the loss of any other virtue she might possess.
A splitting headache throbbed.
Knowing she must stop and rest, Hattie retreated to a small corner park in hopes of finding a convenient bench. As she followed a grassy pathway that wound through a grove of trees, she suddenly stopped. She listened.
Had someone called her name? A preposterous thought. She knew no one in San Francisco save Mrs. Quisenberry. No one knew her.
Only imagination.
A short distance ahead of her, she saw a wooden bench. Once she reached it, she could sit down and take the weight off her aching legs and swollen ankles. But her weary limbs simply refused to move. Her thoughts, too, froze. Once again, she thought she heard someone calling her.
With a shake of her head, Hattie forced herself to move forward. She would not give in to wishful thinking, and surely that’s all it was. Exhausted after yet another sleepless night, and frustrated at her inability to persuade anyone to hire her, she’d come to a point where her mind could not be trusted. Her senses had failed her.
Again, she heard the voice calling her, shouting her name.
A voice that sounded so like Willie’s it made her heart flutter and the baby stir within her womb.
Hattie stared down at her stomach. No matter how often it happened, she would never quite get used to the idea of having a complete little person moving around inside of her. Did all women find it so odd?
She pushed aside her nagging doubts. Mrs. Quisenberry had told her to expect occasional twinges, an aching back, and not to be surprised by how many times she needed to relieve herself. All the discomforts would quickly be forgotten, the woman said, once Hattie held her child in her arms. She smiled at the thought.
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