City of Ash

by Megan Chance

Again my anger flared. I reminded myself of what I wanted: a fresh start, friends, though I knew already that Mrs. Porter was unlikely to be one. Still, she was here. She had attended a pariah’s dinner, and she was willing to be seen with me, and regardless of the fact that it was no doubt because of her husband’s position in Stratford-Brown Mining, she was an ally when I had too few. I forced myself to say, “Why, I’ve never looked at it quite that way before. Do you suppose … could the society use my help?”

  Her glance to Mrs. Brown was quick and a bit panicked. Mrs. Brown said smoothly, “We should hate to impose, Mrs. Langley—”

  “No, not at all,” I said quickly, and sincerely. Such charity work was not what I had in mind, but it was a start. At last here was something I might do, a way to fit in. And Nathan would be pleased at it—he could find no fault with homeless women and orphans. “And you did say the society was quite overwhelmed. I’d hate to have it be so, when I’m here and quite at liberty.”

  They looked at each other. Mrs. Brown cleared her throat. “We would love to have you, Mrs. Langley, you understand, but unfortunately Mrs. Porter and I are not the ones who decide such things.”

  “Who is?”

  Mrs. Porter said, “Mrs. Wilcox and Mrs. Gatzert.”

  The two women who had, in unison, declined my invitation to supper.

  “Oh,” I said. “Oh, I see.”

  Mrs. Brown took a deep breath. “Yes.”

  “Well, then, when is Mrs. Wilcox’s calling day?”

  Mrs. Porter’s glance was faintly pitying. “Before you go calling, Mrs. Langley, I wonder if you should ask yourself just how strong is your desire to ladle out soup to the downtrodden.”

  “You don’t think me capable of such feeling?”

  “Mrs. Wilcox is unlikely to receive you,” Mrs. Brown said bluntly. “She has stated publicly that she won’t.”

  “Mrs. Gatzert then. Mrs. Denny.”

  There was silence.

  A little desperately, I said, “They cannot mean to snub me forever.”

  “I think you’ll find they have impressive staying power,” Mrs. Porter said quietly.

  “I mean to make Seattle my home. What must I do to convince you I am not what the rumors make me?”

  Mrs. Brown said, “Are the rumors true?”

  “I suppose … some of them.”

  “You see the difficulty?” Mrs. Porter asked.

  And I did. Very well. They wished me drowning in shame, humbled and contrite, and they could not know that the evidence of those things was the very fact that I was here now, that I had held this dinner, that I volunteered for charity work, that I was so desperate for friendship I was willing to offer myself for Mrs. Wilcox’s consumption. Public self-flagellation would have suited them, I realized. But my pride was all I had left. I would not give them that.

  The problem was that it was the only thing they wanted.

  “Yes, I understand,” I told Mrs. Porter softly. “But I have to try, don’t I?”

  But trying was easier said than done. As the weeks passed, I began to feel as if I were disappearing. My favorite days became the ones where the city was socked in with fog, because on those days there was no world beyond the one in my parlor, and it was strangely comforting to think there was nothing to miss. I read a great deal. Poe and Hawthorne, Whitman and Coleridge and Browning. The world inside my head took on vibrant life and melodrama. But as far as the world outside … I felt myself wrapped in cotton, a dull automaton.

  My father’s letters continued, now touched with concern, as I could no longer keep to my promises to be cheerful, and I’m afraid my loneliness crept into every missive.

  I am grown worried about you, Geneva. Nathan tells me you are quite despondent. Surely there is some social life there to please you? Are there no plays or operas to go to?

  Yes, there were, but I dared not go alone here as I had in Chicago, not after the promises I’d made my husband and my father, and Nathan claimed to be too busy. But then, one morning in February, as I sat at the table, playing with a piece of toast and sipping coffee and wondering what I should do with the day, Nathan laid something at my elbow. I glanced over without interest until I saw they were tickets. Tickets to the Regal Theater to see Black Jack, or, the Bandit King of the Border.

  I glanced up at my husband, who seated himself and poured coffee into one of the fine china cups I’d had shipped from Chicago. “Do you mean for us to go?”

  “Why else would I have tickets?” he asked irritably. “Robert Wesley gave them to me last night. You’ve seemed so despondent, I thought you might enjoy it.”

  “Oh, I should love to!”

  He shrugged. “It’s only a mellie, but I didn’t think that would matter. God knows we’ve seen enough of them.”

  “You mean to escort me?”

  “Yes, of course. Why, did you have someone else in mind?” He glanced around. “You haven’t some artist hiding in the woodwork, do you?”

  A lump rose in my throat, a quick and bitter longing. “Don’t be absurd.”

  He took a final sip of his coffee and rose. “We will be attending Judge Burke’s supper after. I shall send the carriage for you.”

  I was ready long before the carriage came, dressed in one of my most modest gowns, a pale blue silk that I wore with a lace fichu to cover the expanse below my collarbone, and sapphire earrings that were only droplets compared to the huge square dangling ones I’d worn at our first supper here. It had been some time since Nathan had the time or inclination to attend a play with me, and I dared to hope it meant something more, an indication that he cared, that he too wished not to be so estranged. I planned to be on my best behavior.

  The Regal Theater was very small and not the least bit elegant; it looked as if it might crumple to the ground in the merest breeze. I went through the side door leading to the box seats and found Nathan waiting for me at the bottom of the dark and narrow stairs, impatiently taking his watch from his vest pocket to check the time.

  Mr. and Mrs. Brown were waiting for us in the box, as well as six or seven strangers. There was the loud thumping from those in the gallery above, and a general commotion in the parquet below. A small orchestra tuned their instruments in the pit; a boy with a basket called, “Lozenges! Buy your lozenges afore the show starts!” The theater was dim and cold, the smell of gas heavy from the footlights ringing the stage and those set in tin sconces about the walls, but the seats were padded, and the curtain was heavy blue velvet to match the blue and gold decor, a large gas chandelier hung imposingly above—trappings of elegance that only served to send the meanness of everything else into relief.

  As we took our seats, Mr. Brown leaned forward to say, “I’m so glad you could come with us tonight.”

  Nathan said, “Ginny has always enjoyed the theater. Do you know this play?”

  Mr. Brown shook his head. His wife said, “Mr. Greene’s company can be counted on for the most diverting entertainment, if not always the most elevated.”

  The gasolier above dimmed, the crowd went quieter but not quiet, not until the orchestra began to play, and even then the gallery above was never silent, whistling and catcalling even as the deep blue curtains slid open to reveal a desert mountain setting, and the play began.

  Mrs. Brown was right; it was not edifying, but it was energizing and quick, full of action and brilliant stunts—the bandit swinging across the stage on a rope, he and his henchman dashing up a narrow pathway on horseback to toss a blond-haired damsel—clearly a crowd favorite, given the stomping of feet and shouting at her entrance—into a mountain ravine, a daring rescue by the equally blond hero over the same. I was enraptured from the first moment Black Jack told of his intentions in a rollicking song that had those in the gallery singing along, shouting the chorus: “She will be mine, mine, mine or die a thousand times!” And when Sweet Polly’s dark-haired sister entreated the hero not to forget his duty, her song took up residence in my head, and I was still humming it when the pla
y ended in fireworks and startled cries.

  I did not want to leave. The time had passed too quickly; how I had missed this! It was nothing compared to the theater I’d seen in Chicago. It was coarse and mean, but it accentuated my loss; I could barely smile my good-byes to the Browns when my husband led me to the carriage.

  It was pouring again, spattering and spitting on the carriage roof. The window sweated against the cold and wet, impossible to see out as we made our way to Judge Burke’s, the haloed streetlamps only a suggestion of light. I could not see Nathan’s face.

  “Did you enjoy it?” I asked him.

  There was a pause; I had the sense he had only just heard me, that his mind was somewhere far away. “Enjoy it? Why, yes. Yes, I did. Did you?”

  I could not contain myself. “I would love to see it again. How long does it run?”

  “I’ve no idea,” he said. “Why, did you see an actor you fancied?”

  I was stung. How little it took to bring the shame and humiliation rising again. “That’s unfair, Nathan.”

  The carriage stopped. He sighed. “Yes, it was. Forgive me. Now here we are. Judge Burke is trying to broker a deal between Seattle and the Northern Pacific Railroad, and he is most certain to figure prominently in the change to statehood. My future could very well be in his hands.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I won’t embarrass you.”

  He gave me a weary look and offered his arm as our driver opened the door to let us out. There were a few carriages already waiting, and a wagon or two as well. Lights shone invitingly from the windows, and Nathan and I hurried toward them through the rain. We were shown into the parlor, where a short, stocky man with a mustache and the look of the florid Irish about him, and his taller wife, held court.

  Nathan led me to them without hesitation. “Judge Burke, Mrs. Burke, may I present my wife, Geneva Langley.”

  The judge peered at me as if it were hard for him to focus in the dim light. “I’m happy to meet you, Mrs. Langley. I must say I’ve heard a great deal about you.”

  “Nothing too bad, I hope.”

  His wife’s smile was hardly there. “Your husband has assured us all that is in the past.”

  “Indeed it is. In fact, I’ve thought a great deal about joining the Ladies Relief Society I’ve heard so much about.”

  “The Relief Society?” Judge Burke looked faintly bored. “Well, then, you will want to speak to Sarah Wilcox.” He pointed through the crowd, and I looked in that direction to see an older woman dressed completely in black. “She was one of the founders of the Society, along with Mrs. Gatzert. She can present you to the others.”

  Mrs. Burke’s expression seemed strained. “Of course you must speak to her.”

  But she did not offer an introduction, I noticed, and just then two others came into the parlor, and Nathan and I were dismissed as Mrs. Burke and her husband went to greet the newcomers.

  “What is this about a relief society?” Nathan asked me in a low voice. “You’ve never shown any interest in such things before.”

  “I’ve never needed to. But as it seems to be the entry into the hearts of the women here, I thought it would be best to join.”

  “Well.” His expression was surprised, his tone reluctantly impressed. “I’m surprised.”

  “Did you think me too small to change?”

  “Not too small. Too … invested.”

  “Invested in what?”

  “In your little rebellions.”

  I felt the uncomfortable ring of truth. “I think I shall go mad if I must spend another day staring out the window.”

  Nathan let out his breath. “Well, good. Good. I’m glad to see you mean to be the asset I need, Ginny.”

  Just then I saw Mrs. Wilcox across the room, her gray hair perfectly swept up in a clasp of black feathers, the jet beads at her ears matching the cape she wore over her shoulders. She was speaking with some other woman and a gray-haired man.

  “There she is,” I said to Nathan. “The dragon herself. Shall I go and introduce myself?”

  He took a drink from a passing servant and said mildly, “You know best, I imagine.”

  “Very well, I shall,” I said, though my nerves were taut. Foolish—I was Geneva Stratford Langley, after all—what had I to be afraid of? How difficult was it to just walk up to her, introduce myself, and mention the Relief Society? I started across the room toward her. I knew that not only was Nathan watching me, but others were too—my step was purposeful enough that they must wonder as to its destination.

  I was only a few steps away from her when a woman I didn’t recognize tapped her on the shoulder. I saw Mrs. Wilcox catch sight of me. For one moment, she met my gaze, for a moment, she held it. Obvious. Deadly.

  And then, quite deliberately and with a lethal flamboyance, Mrs. Sarah Wilcox turned her back on me and walked away.

  Suddenly I was back in the exhibition hall, with my closest friends turning away from me and talk like confetti in the air. I heard the quick whispers. I heard someone laugh. I faltered and came to a stop, feeling heat move into my face. Humiliated.

  I turned quickly, struggling to keep my composure, looking back to my husband, who drank his sherry with a frown, trying to hide his embarrassment and consternation, and I thought of Chicago, of home, of my door thrown open to welcome guests, the gifts they pressed into my hands, the kisses on my cheek, and I thought how stupid I’d been. How stupid and ridiculous, to throw it all away.

  Chapter Five

  Beatrice

  I first saw him during our performance of Black Jack, or, the Bandit King of the Border. He was sitting in the boxes, next to a woman in pale blue. Faces in the theater were easy to see because the houselights were never turned down all the way, and I was no different from Lucius or the others in the company when it came to keeping an eye on who was in the boxes. The most important people in any city always had those tickets, which were the most expensive. So I noted them. While Stella screamed her stupid voice hoarse, I watched them from the wings. The woman clapped furiously and leaned forward as if she could breathe in the show. He was more reserved, but the strange thing was that I felt his gaze whenever I was onstage, and I knew he wasn’t watching Stella or Aloysius or Jack. He was watching me.

  I saw the opportunity, of course I did. And I knew I was going to take it if it was offered and tried not to think of it as compromising. I’d never taken a patron because it was too close in my mind to being a whore. But Stella had taught me a lesson. All those years of hoping my talent could move me ahead, of doing what was expected, had got me nowhere. Lucius had said it was pure business, and I took that to heart now. So I played to the man in the box, and the next morning, there was a bouquet of flowers delivered to the theater for me. Nothing too fancy, mostly carnations with a few roses, but they were pretty, and as it was usually Stella—or La Stella, as they were calling her now—who got flowers, I was surprised and pleased. There was no card, but I knew who they were from.

  I set them on the table in the dressing room and left them there. When I came back that afternoon to get ready for the performance, the smell of roses was so strong in that airless little space I had to keep the door ajar to breathe.

  “Who sent these?” Susan Jenks—our new traveling lady, who’d taken over Stella’s old line—asked me as she came inside. “Pretty.”

  “They are,” I agreed, feeling another little stab of pleasure. “I got them this morning. There wasn’t a card.”

  “A secret admirer! Do you have any idea who?”

  “None,” I told her, a lie, but she didn’t ask any more questions.

  I looked for him that night, in vain, it turned out, because he wasn’t there. Nor the next night, nor the next. I’d decided he was probably a visitor to town, and I’d never see him again, and there went that opportunity, which was disappointing, you know, but I was a little relieved at it too. I wasn’t meant to go that route after all. When the flowers withered I threw them in the refus
e pile out back and forgot about him.

  I didn’t see him again until the party for Aloysius’s birthday. No reason for a party was ever too small for the company, so we gathered at the saloon on the corner—even some of the set builders and supernumeraries came, and we ended up taking the place over, drinking lager and whiskey, and of course Stella was there with her damned absinthe while half the theater people crowded around her. I’ll admit, she did look elegant, performing her little absinthe ritual, the water, the sugar, the slotted spoon. Her motions were smooth and theatrical, as if she were on her own personal stage, and I thought: she’s not long for us, and wondered why I thought it. She’d only been the lead for a few months; surely she couldn’t already be thinking of starting her own tour as a star. But the more I looked at her, the more I thought that was just what she meant to do.

  I’d told myself to settle in, exactly as Brody had said. Watch and wait. Play the game and try not to think too hard about the passing time. But now I leaned against the bar and sipped at my beer and watched Stella and my impatience and hunger rose. That very moment, the man who’d sent me the flowers came into the saloon.

  The lady wasn’t with him. He was with a bearded, spectacled gentleman, and they both wore expensive suits and vests and sparkling watch chains. The two of them fairly stank of money. I saw Stella catch the scent too, though she hardly needed riches now; she still had Welling for her protector. But her sharp little chin came up quick as a weasel’s; even from where I stood I could see her nose twitch.

  Neither of them did more than glance at her. Instead they came to the bar near where I stood. The man had light brown hair that was just short of blond, and it shone with pomade or macassar, and he was handsome, better looking close up than I’d seen at a distance. He didn’t look at me, didn’t even glance in my direction, but you know, I felt that he knew exactly where I was, that I was even the reason he was there.

  They both ordered whiskey and leaned on the bar, facing each other, to talk. The blond man’s back was to me; he was only a foot away. The place was noisy and crowded, heavy with smoke. I couldn’t hear a thing they were saying. But I stood there and drank my beer. I wondered if he would follow me if I left. I thought of Aloysius’s words: “Her paramour is paying the production costs, darling. One can’t fault her for playing her cards well.”