In the Land of Gold

by Angela Christina Archer

  Were they right?

  Certainly, no one had actually spoken any of the words, and I was just being foolish.

  Inhaling a deep breath, I found an empty seat in the back of the last car. I can’t deny that sitting in the very last seat wasn’t as bold as sitting in the middle of the action, but at least I’d stepped on the dang train.

  My backside slid across the cold, brown leather, and I set my bag next to me, hoping that anyone searching for a seat would see it as a sign that I didn’t want a traveling companion. The last thing I needed at this moment was mindless chatter from a stranger, talking about their lives, their adventures, or worse, asking about mine.

  I looked out of the window next to me and saw Christopher shoving his way through the crowd and searching frantically through each of the windows for my face. I couldn’t hear him, but his lips moved as he shouted my name, repeatedly.

  I ducked low into the seat, shielding my face as he passed my window. I fought tears, hating myself for what I’d done, as my fingertips swirled my engagement ring around my finger.

  Please, let him forgive me. Let him understand my plight.

  With a sudden jerk, the train began to glide along the tracks. Passing the station, I saw Mother sitting in Christopher’s motorcar parked next to the building. Her arms were crossed and she just stared at the carriages in front of her with a look of utter anger.

  Sickness swirled through my stomach, and I bit my lip to keep myself composed. Unlike Christopher, who might forgive me, she would take a decade to forget what I’d done.

  Chapter 3

  As the train halted in front of the Tacoma station, only a few people lingered along the platform. Most of them wore uniforms, porters hauling large trunks from different cars of the train to awaiting carriages.

  After disembarking, I made my way across the wooden dock towards the station house, stretching the soreness from every aching muscle, and ignoring my parched throat and growling stomach.

  I struggled against the heavily hinged station door, stepping inside as a woman fussed at the ticket counter.

  “I don’t care how long it takes. I want you to search that entire train,” she shouted. Wearing a plain blue dress, she paced the floor with her dirty black shoes.

  “I’ve sent three men to look for her, Mrs. Colton. Are you certain she planned to arrive on this train?”

  Mrs. Colton?

  In my shock, my hand slipped from the doorknob and the massive door slammed shut behind me, banging against the wooden frame. The woman spun on her heel and gasped.

  Through her plainness, her beautiful features radiated. The wrinkled lines of the face spoke of a woman my mother’s age. Certainly, not the young woman I envisioned due to Mother’s description of her.

  “Cora?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “Oh my, how you look like your father,” she gushed, approaching me with a broad smile. “You have his eyes.”

  Was that a compliment?

  “Has anyone ever told you that?”

  I shook my head.

  Within seconds, she hugged me in a tight squeeze. The lack of emotional bond with this woman left me awkward and stiff in her embrace with my hands at my side.

  “Oh, I was worried sick. I received your telegram and thought I was going to go mad when they couldn’t find you on the train.”

  “Telegram?”

  “The one you sent with your arrival information.”

  Grace.

  “Yes, of course, how foolish of me to forget,” I lied. Seconds ago, Anne and I were both faceless names to one another. Strangers, who certainly didn’t need to know much about each other’s lives. Even if she believed otherwise, I didn’t.

  “You look tired. Let’s get you back to the house for some rest and a warm, home cooked meal.”

  “Um . . . all right.” I nodded and released the handle of my bag as she grabbed it.

  We stepped out into the foggy Tacoma air. It chilled to the bone within seconds as the mist dampened my dress and hair.

  The sun obscured behind dull, gray clouds, reminding me of just another day in Seattle. But, I suppose only a fool would expect anything different, having only traveled a little over thirty miles.

  “I’ve got a nice roast in the oven for dinner tonight,” Anne beamed. “I hope you like it. A hot meal will help battle the cold storm coming down from the north. The butcher had a sale this week, so I purchased a couple of pounds.”

  She set my bag in the back of an old wooden carriage that had seen many years of hard work. Obviously, a servant carriage and not the grand one she and father traveled in around town.

  Why on earth did she pick me up in this? Was it a reflection of how she felt about me—the thorn in her side all these years?

  I shook the negative thoughts from my head and tightened my wrap as I climbed in the wagon. Harboring ill will against this woman, no matter how much I desired to do so, certainly wouldn’t ease the few days spent in her company.

  Dread already plagued me—I shouldn’t further aggravate my emotional state.

  Perhaps my luck would prevail, and I would be nothing more than a lost visitor in their mansion—able to hide away in a room in a distant wing and wouldn’t see much of her.

  “The house isn’t far. I’ll have you warm and dry in no time,” Anne smiled.

  The wagon passed many businesses and houses as it rolled down the muddy street. In my exhausted haze, each of the wood and brick buildings blended with the next.

  The city resembled Seattle, but held a difference I couldn’t decipher, mirroring the stranger sitting next to me, quietly humming to herself as she turned down another muddy street.

  I suppose becoming familiar with Tacoma didn’t matter in the end. I’d only planned to visit for a few days before returning to Seattle. Of course, such was hardly an appealing thought. An irate Mother and an angry fiancé could compare to poking out my own eyes.

  No, you can’t think about them. Don’t think about them.

  People jammed the sidewalks, strolling with umbrellas in their hands. A few of them waved to Anne as we passed, and she returned their greetings as she continued to hum with a contentment that left me feeling awkward and confused.

  “It’s a real quiet neighborhood. Your father always thought we stumbled upon it by sheer luck. Perhaps we did, or perhaps we were just meant to live here all along. I suppose the means don’t really matter.”

  Living here?

  The houses we passed were tiny, old, and they showed their age with thinning paint and lifting shingles. However, the yards were tidy with perfectly cut grass and trimmed hedges. Flowers overflowed the boxes under the windows and dogs barked from behind the fences—a decent neighborhood.

  “I couldn’t help but notice your engagement ring.” The hesitation in Anne’s voice was obvious. “It’s a very pretty setting.”

  “Thank you.”

  She glanced at me. “Congratulations. I wish you and . . . well, your fiancé, many years of happiness.”

  “Christopher,” I whispered. “His name is Christopher.”

  “Have you set a wedding date?”

  “Um, not as of yet. We got engaged just a few days ago, and then . . . and then I . . . ”

  “Traveled here.” She nodded as she finished my sentence.

  “Yes.”

  “Sounds as though he is quite an understanding gentleman. You are very lucky.”

  Her assumption rattled my guilt, but worse, it left my chest hollow—unable to take a breath. Christopher wasn’t understanding in the slightest extent. The only reason I rode in the carriage next to her was because I had run away.

  Anne steered the wagon up a driveway, around to the back of one of the little houses, and gentled the horse
to a halt in front of a rundown barn with rotten wood and a tiny horse pen.

  “I’ll grab your bag in a moment, I just have to tie up the horse,” she said, climbing out of the wagon.

  “All right.” I stepped down into the mud and gaped at the wooden cottage. The house was tiny and badly in need of a fresh coat of white paint, new windows, and a new roof.

  This was her house?

  Surely, this was the servant’s quarters, as it was not the mansion described to me by Mother, having two stories of extravagant, elegant windows, a wrought iron fence lined with big oak trees, a marble staircase, and golden lamp posts illuminating the entire home in a glow.

  Why would a millionaire live in such a dilapidated hovel?

  “I’m so happy you decided to come,” Anne gushed.

  Meeting her smile, I followed her through a wooden gate and up the cobbled pathway. My heels clanked against the wood floor as I entered the kitchen and glanced around in both amazement and confusion.

  “Dinner should be ready to eat as soon as you’re settled. Your bedroom is right through here.”

  Brown carpet and cream-colored wallpaper throughout the house showed their age, mirroring the tattered brown sofa and chairs. Pictures hung in frames on every wall and rested among the many wooden shelves, and various knickknacks adorned every inch of space.

  She opened a squeaky door around the corner of the living room and led me into a tiny bedroom. The room was plain with white sheer curtains, a white cotton bed cover with white pillows, and was the nicest and tidiest room in the house I’d seen.

  “The bed is comfortable, though I know it sure doesn’t look it,” she laughed. “However, it’s always been my favorite room.”

  “I can see why. It is very lovely.”

  She glanced around, and her smile widened as she adjusted the old frame around a picture of people I didn’t know, and who wore clothes not from this decade. Her hand settled momentarily on an old wooden box that looked hand carved.

  “Your father made this for me.” She pointed to the box, then exhaled deeply. Catching sight of my half smile and nod, she cleared her throat. “I don’t have a telephone box, but I know of one should you need to ring Christopher that you have arrived.”

  A lump formed in my throat, and I fidgeted with the buttons of my sleeve around my wrist.

  “Oh, uh, he had a . . . a business dinner scheduled for tonight, so I doubt he would be home at this hour.” I lied as my eyes danced around the room. I couldn’t face what I’d done, not yet, and the thought of hearing his voice sent my anxiety crawling over my skin.

  Her eyebrows furrowed for a second, twitching with a hint of confusion. “Well, whenever you wish to, just let me know.”

  “I will.”

  “You’re more than welcome to anything you need. I put a few logs in the stove too, so the living room would be nice and warm. I have several books if you’d like to look through them. I mean, you don’t have to stay confined to this tiny room, if you don’t want.”

  “Thank you.” As I glanced around the room, a stack of envelopes sitting perfectly upon the white bed cover caught my attention. “Oh, do you need these.”

  I grasped the heap of paper and held it out for her to take.

  “No, those are your letters.”

  “Mine?”

  “From your father. He wrote to you all the time, but . . . ” Her voice trailed off.

  “But?”

  “But each one was returned.”

  No matter how much the red ink had faded over the years, the words were still legible: ‘Return to Sender’ with the same unique shaped letter ‘R’ that I’d seen Mother write countless times.

  Anne studied my wide, staring eyes, then shrugged her shoulders.

  As she left the room, she muttered. “I thought you should finally have them.”

  Chapter 4

  I paced the tiny room, glancing at the stack of letters every few steps.

  Snorting a laugh, I repeated Anne’s words. “I thought you should finally have them.”

  Annoyed with her insinuation, I growled under my breath and plopped my rump upon the bed.

  Just a few days, Cora, you only have to survive a few days.

  Exhaling a deep breath, I smoothed the fabric of my dress with my clammy hands and rose to my feet. Turning the bedroom doorknob, I repeated my own guidance and stepped out of the room.

  Muffled sobs echoed from the living room, and I hesitated before peeking around the corner. Anne clutched a tiny pillow to her face as she rested upon the sofa. She glanced up at me and her tears streamed freely down her red, puffy cheeks.

  Guilt prickled, stinging as I recounted any abrasive tone I might have used toward her. I never meant to make her cry.

  “I’m sorry, Cora. I just miss your father,” she whimpered, and wiped her eyes with the dishtowel in her hands.

  Awkward and out of place, I stood in the living room, glancing at everything but her.

  “You mentioned dinner would be ready soon, and I didn’t wish for it to ruin.”

  She nodded, set the pillow on the couch, and strode into the kitchen. “Don’t let me forget to light a fire in the woodstove in your room after dinner, and also to find you a few extra blankets. That room can grow cold during storms.”

  “All right.” I hesitated in the archway of the kitchen. “May I help you with anything?”

  “All I have left to do is slice and serve, but if you wish to wash your hands the soap is under the sink.”

  I sauntered over to the sink and opened the cabinet. The rusty door hinge squeaked a little, and the cabinet smelled of old cedar wood and soap.

  “How long have you lived in this house?”

  “I guess it will be fifteen years in a few months. Your father and I purchased the place a few weeks after . . . after we relocated to Tacoma.”

  “But I thought you lived in a mansion.” As soon as the words left my mouth, I cringed.

  “A mansion? Did your mother tell you that?” Anne laughed. “Well, we’ve never lived in a mansion, no matter what you were told. We bought this place and have lived quite modestly here.”

  I shrugged my shoulders and rinsed off my sudsy hands. With any luck, the conversation would end on that note. I bit my lip, and sat at the table. The less I said for the rest of my time in her company, especially regarding Mother, the better—no more questions, no more assumptions.

  Anne handed me a plate full of roast topped with carrots and potatoes and poured me a tumbler of water.

  “I know you probably don’t wish to speak of your mother, Cora, or your father for that matter. I understand that, and I don’t wish to make you uncomfortable, but at the same time, I can’t allow lies to be spoken about us.”

  “I understand. I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “It is a valid question if what you have been raised to believe is something different.”

  “Anne, your life is none of my business,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. “This is the first I’ve spoken to you, and the man you knew was not the one I knew.”

  “Or, the one your mother led you to believe in.” She set her own plate of food down upon the table and sat in the other chair. “You should read your father’s letters.”

  I inhaled a deep breath to calm myself and closed my eyes.

  Why couldn’t I just keep my mouth shut?

  “Cora, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insinuate…I only meant…oh, I don’t know what I meant,” she groaned, throwing her fork onto her plate and burying her face in her hands. “I’m sorry if I made a mistake in sending you the telegram. I just thought it would be a nice way to get to know him. He was a good man, Cora, and he was taken from me way too soon.”

  A good man?

  A good man r
uns out on his only daughter in the middle of the night? A good man shares his bed with another woman while he’s married?

  I must have been insane to think of coming here.

  Why did she think I needed to read those letters? I was only nine when my father abandoned me, seeing him stride out the door that night, and then never hearing from him again. What did she know of having to live through the pain of knowing my own father cared nothing about me?

  “Excuse me, I need some air.” I threw down my napkin, shoved the chair from the table, and marched toward the front door.

  “Cora?” Anne called after me as I slammed the door and trotted down the steps. Seconds later, she opened the door, and called after me, repeatedly.

  “I just need some air, Anne.”

  “But—”

  “I won’t be long, just go inside and finish your dinner.”

  “Cora, wait.”

  “Anne, I need to be alone, just leave me alone.” I shouted, quickening my pace.

  My feet stumbled down the cobble footpath as I turned corner after corner, passing shops, and people strolling through the streets.

  Men tipped their hats, but I didn’t meet their eyes. I feared to do so, feared that looking at any of them would break the strength that held my tears at bay.

  The street lamps lit my path, illuminating with a soft, yellow glow against the sky that had changed from gray to a midnight black.