After yawning and stretching luxuriously, she selected her wardrobe, attended to morning ablutions, and was tucking herself into undergarments when a knock sounded at her door.
“Come in, Bridget,” she called.
“Oh, I see you’ve chosen that lovely blue frock to wear today,” approved the maid. “One of my favorites. And a fine thing that looks on you, Miss. Is it somethin’ special you have goin’ on, then?”
“I like it, too, especially for today’s late meeting that I have scheduled. I just wish—” A whoosh of breath as the folds of fabric slipped over her head.
“Wish what?” Bridget was busy adjusting this and that, tying and fastening whatever needed to be tied and fastened.
“That someday I might be able to dress myself, without help!” Cecelia laughed. “These formal day dresses, that need two people to put only one together—well, it’s just very aggravating to feel such a victim to women’s fashions, that’s all.”
Bridget was shocked. “But, Miss, if you were able to get along fine by yourself, then what would I do?”
Smiling, Cecelia turned to pat the girl’s arm. “Oh, I would have no problem finding plenty for you to take care of otherwise. But I wonder—how does any female manage her wardrobe without having the luxury of a maid?”
“Hmmph.” A sniff of disdain. “Simple things, if you ask me, put on in a dash and a promise, that wouldn’t hold together for any appropriate occasion. Not that I would ever want to find out, I’m sure.”
“Well, but—”
They were still arguing good-naturedly over the issue as they descended the stairs, greeted Mrs. Liang, the housekeeper, and partook of breakfast—each, according to station, in their separate area. While Bridget, with her peppery personality, enjoyed her employer’s friendship, she wasn’t about to presume upon it. Especially under Mrs. Liang’s critical eye.
“Will you be coming home directly after classes end today, Miss Powell?” asked the housekeeper now. Before emigrating to the distant land of California with her parents, she had attended a missionary school in China; and, despite a Far Eastern appearance, with ivory complexion and hair arranged into shining black coils, she spoke perfect English with only a slight British accent.
Cecelia glanced up from the newspaper she had laid out carefully beside her porcelain coffee cup. “No, not till almost dinner time. I have an appointment to meet the parent of a possible new student today. Um—what are we having tonight?”
The dark eyes tilted up slightly, the controlled mouth widened into a smile. “Watercress salad and vegetable beef stew.”
“Oh, that’ll make me hurry home. Two of my favorites.”
“Indeed. I do recall your mentioning that fact, when both dishes were served last month.” Another smile, then the housekeeper offered a small satisfied nod before disappearing through the swing door to her own realm.
Cecelia returned to her newspaper. She had skimmed partway down one column when an advertisement for travel tickets caught her attention. Leaning one elbow on the table, she propped her chin into her palm and stared out into space, across the room and through the muslin-draped window, open to morning sunshine and spring air.
Travel tickets. How well she remembered her own, those long months ago, as she readied her person and her belongings to move three thousand miles away, to a place she’d only barely heard about and was unclear what might be expected when she arrived there. Also, the fact that she had just gotten home from a similar exhaustive odyssey was enough to daunt the strongest heart.
For a week, after Gabe had collected information, more details, addresses, and maps, they discussed pros and cons between the two types of travel: overland, partway by train and the rest of the way by wagon and horseback, over appalling terrain; the other route by steamship from New York to Chagres, then via railroad to Panama City, then another steamship to Manzanillo and San Francisco.
Not surprisingly, Cecelia opted for the second choice. “It sounds easier to deal with,” she ventured hopefully, “and a less lengthy journey. Which I would appreciate, being on my own.”
“On your own!” Gabe tut-tutted that notion. “Of course you won’t be on your own. Bridget has already volunteered to keep you company. And I’ll be right along with you, gettin’ in the way and bein’ underfoot and makin’ a general nuisance of myself.”
“You will? Oh, Gabe, that’s wonderful! But what about everything you have here—your law practice, and all your properties, and so on?”
“Well, shoot, honey. I’ve been wrappin’ up business and sellin’ things right and left, even as we speak. D’you think I could let my two girls hie off on their own, again, ’specially to that heathen western land, leavin’ me behind to worry and wonder what’s happenin’?”
Cecelia bent over the map spread across the desktop, her finger tracing a line from state to state. “A fresh start, then,” she murmured. “For all of us.”
“Yessir. Give me a little more time to close out all my affairs here, get some assets sold, set up a power of attorney, and we’re good to go.”
“In that case,” Cecelia, feeling relieved and much reassured, “do you agree that taking a steamship is the better option?”
“I do indeed, Cecie. I like my comforts, y’know. Nothin’ comfortable about jouncin’ along more’n a thousand miles in a damned Conestoga, behind a team of smelly oxen. My backside just ain’t up to that kind of travel.”
And so, to use the Biblical phrase, it came to pass.
Business commitments were resolved, possessions packed or sold or disposed of, personal ties severed, houses and apartments closed up.
On one fine day in early July, Gabriel handed Cecelia Powell and his niece into the private carriage he had hired, and, followed by a dray holding all their worldly effects, they set off for New York Harbor. Both girls felt the excitement of starting a new life in a new part of the country…and yet, not so much. Excitement was mixed with trepidation and mild weariness for the undertaking of yet another pilgrimage.
At the dock, they boarded a newly built steamship, the Liberty Belle, and settled into spacious cabins; a large enough vessel, according to Gabe, to be quite comfortable during their voyage, yet small enough to be friendly.
Upon embarkation, all three of them hung over the rail like five-year-olds, fluttering farewell handkerchiefs to the crowd left behind—at least, the girls did. Gabe executed a few easy waves or an occasional salute to no one in particular, just to feel in the swim of things.
Slow, gradual maneuverings from quieter waters to the greater ocean beyond, and they were on their way. There remained only inclusion in steamship life, with scrumptious meals at any hour of the day, games of shuffleboard, bracing walks around the outer decks, and nighttime dancing under the stars.
Enough unattached young men were available to keep Cecelia from feeling like a wallflower. The extended cruise home from Europe just last month had familiarized her enough with shipboard routine to accept any romance for what it was: occasional flirting, nothing serious. At the end of the voyage, or upon any change of vessel, casual goodbyes would be exchanged and parties could continue on to their separate destinations, with, it was to be hoped, no stronger emotion involved than mild regret and definite well-wishing.
Calls at various ports not only extended time for the passage, but allowed a chance to sightsee. While the South was becoming increasingly immured in political upheaval, with Charleston the recent site of the Democratic National Convention, and with Savannah’s Merchants and Planters Bank financing a wharf full of cotton bales bound for New York, stately old homes in both cities offered the charm of architecture and hospitality.
Key West, with its lush semi-tropical setting of sand and surf and intriguing banyan trees, kapok trees, and palms, also served as a harbor for slave ships and their wretched human cargo. New Orleans provided relief from more serious matters, as travelers were treated to tours of scenic areas, both by carriage and by paddlewheel.
F
ortunately—or unfortunately, depending on your point of view—the wild gold rush days of California madness had passed on by some ten years or so ago. The entire Eastern seaboard had heard of and palavered over the hardships involved in getting to The Promised Land. Gabe and his entourage, having quite comfortably visited a civilized American metropolis in several states, honestly assumed that the remainder of their trek would continue in the same vein.
Thus, the sight of Chagres on Panama’s coast came as a shock. The village has been built mainly of large thatched huts that provided no sanitary conveniences; nor were roads, replacement stores, or modern lighting readily available. The bewildered natives had to cope with a steady influx of crazy people from all over the world, determined to make their way to California so that they might start picking up gold nuggets, right off the ground.
The Liberty Belle’s passengers had arrived during the wet season. First the travelers were drowned by rain; shortly after, they were steamed halfway dry by the blazing sun.
“Now I know how a clam must feel,” murmured Cecelia, drooping under the merciful shade of a protective awning on board ship.
“We’re in luck, though, girls,” Gabe announced. “We got us reservations on the railroad ’cross the Isthmus. Once we get all our stuff on board, it’ll only be a few hours till we see the Pacific Ocean. Imagine that!”
“I must confess, I am definitely ready to leave this part of the world behind,” Cecelia sighed. “Boston’s heat did not prepare me for a tropical climate.”
Gabe eyed his charge, pale as putty in noonday temperatures, with sympathy. “I know, honey. But it could be worse. Before the railway was built, back a few years ago, we’d’a been usin’ canoes. And things woulda been a lot tougher for all of us. How you doin’, there, Bridge?”
“Good thing I’m tough Irish stock, Uncle Gabe,” she said cheerfully. “This has been a wonderful trip, up to this point. It’s here on that gives me a bit of the shakes.”
Laughing, he sank back into a chair and propped his booted heels upon the deck rail. “Naw, this will be the worst part, trust me on that. Once we head north on the ship that’s waitin’ for us at Panama City, we’ll have a brief layover at Manzanillo, then it’s clear sailin’ up the coast to San Fran.”
“Not so clear once word of Sutter’s Fort got out, though, was it?” Cecelia remembered the stories reported in Boston’s newspapers, how ships loaded with a full contingent arrived in San Francisco Bay only to have every last sailor desert and slink away to the gold fields, how unmanned vessels from Hawaii and other foreign ports were left standing in harbor, to slowly rot away.
“You’re right. That was a crazy, boomin’ time. But it’s mostly settled down now, and we should have no trouble finding us a nice place to rent. Or buy. We’ll also need to find us a good lawyer to handle your shares in Paul’s gold conglomerate.”
“And I can start the school we talked about, Gabe.” A note of excitement tinged Cecelia’s voice. “Certainly I have the experience necessary to teach. And with you and Bridget involved, I think this can be a very successful venture.”
“Yessir.” Shifting position, Gabe reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a cigar. “It’s good to have plans, girls. We got us a good future on the horizon.”
* * * * * * * * * *
“That’s fine, Mrs. Fortin. Then we’ll expect Ruthann bright and early Monday morning.”
“But the cost—” began the woman opposite, in a worried tone. “Much as I want Ruthann to be educated, I just can’t—”
“No, no, don’t worry about that; as I explained, we have scholarships just waiting to be awarded to deserving students, one of whom is, I have no doubt, this daughter of yours.”
Mother and daughter exchanged unbelieving glances, then slow smiles. Little Ruthann’s missing front tooth gave her a pixie-ish appearance. “You mean, I can really start school here?”
Cecelia returned both smiles with one of her own, wide and all-encompassing. “Absolutely. I think you will make a wonderful addition to my other seven students. It’s all settled, then.” She rose, to indicate that the interview was favorably concluded, and reached out to grasp Mrs. Fortin’s hand. A rough, hard-scrabbled hand, despite the use of black net mitts. “Good day, ladies. Thank you for coming in to meet with me.”
She walked them to the front door and then stood for a minute, watching with satisfaction, as the two Fortins, talking excitedly together, followed a brick path through the whitewashed gate and beyond.
What a wonderful accomplishment, this late afternoon with classes finished for the day. Eight students, ranging in age from seven-year-old Ruthann to twelve-year-old Hannah, were now enrolled at the Powell Academy for Proper Young Ladies. All of enviable intelligence, all from poor working families, all “with a strike against ’em,” according to Gabe, who fiercely championed her goal to find and educate those worthy individuals, preparing them mentally and physically for the world into which they would eventually move.
As she strolled slowly back inside, Cecelia wondered how much her own checkered background, growing up casually loved yet too often passed over for business in a bawdy house, had influenced her unconscious decision to seek out those students who would need her help the most. Ruthann, now, she was the daughter of a widowed mother; her father had been killed last year by an overfilled dray on one of San Francisco’s perpendicular hills. Who was more deserving than this deprived child of an educational fund set up by Gabe and by Cecelia, herself?
“Hello, Cecelia. Ready to leave for the day?”
“Josiah! Why, what a delight to see you here.” She turned from the books needing to be gathered up, and the papers needing to be stacked, to greet the newcomer with obvious enjoyment.
Shrugging, he put aside his black bowler and managed a thin smile. “I haven’t had the pleasure of your company for nearly a week now, my dear. Since we are affianced, I hoped to find that some of the—er—um—barriers to our being together might—ahem—be overturned.”
“I can see why you might expect that,” agreed Cecelia, attempting to soothe what was apparently a wounded ego. “And you would be correct. It’s just that I have been terribly busy, Josiah, with all the work here at my school. As you know, I’m trying to hire another teacher, and I have—”
“Yes, yes,” he interrupted. “Too much to do, and all that. I understand. But Mother doesn’t. In fact, she’s the one who suggested I come here today and pry you free. Catching you all alone is a real—er—boon.”
“Your mother?”
Their betrothal was still so new a thing, so satisfying—if not exactly stimulating—that Cecelia had wanted to keep its announcement private for a while. True, she had agreed to wear the small garnet ring Josiah had slipped onto her finger last week; she had also agreed to attend an engagement party in their honor, hosted by his mother. Bridget, immediately guessing the reason for this piece of jewelry, had sprung a hundred questions on her. Some of which had no answer.
Still, Cecelia had caught herself pondering, over the past few days, if this was what she really wanted. Josiah Kingsley was considered a “catch” in San Franciscan society: well-dressed (if somewhat foppish), well-mannered (if somewhat priggish), well-favored (if somewhat plain-ish).
His bland brown eyes were set rather too close together (a narrow view on important matters?), his mouth had a tight, prim set to it (ungenerous? uncompassionate?), and his straight brown hair was already thinning and receding (vain enough to wear a hat as often as possible?). For noticing these outer physical flaws, instead of whatever positive traits must surely be tucked inside, Cecelia felt a blush of shame.
Since when had she become so critical of others, so small in charity? How dare she behave in such a petty way toward a man who was probably quite fine, who would give her a good life?
Not to mention the fact that the end of her grace period was fast approaching. To keep the benefits of her father’s partial estate, marriage was a must. Marriage to who
m might not be such a consideration, under those circumstances.
As if he read her thoughts, Josiah reached out now to clasp her hand in both of his. “We’re alone here, Cecelia,” he unnecessarily reminded her. “I could—you could—we could…”
They could what? Kiss? Then, for Heaven’s sake, why not just do it! Must he ask permission?
By now, thanks to foreign travel and shipboard intrigues, she was experienced enough to have enjoyed the light, quick brush of a man’s lips several times, without any harm being done. Curious, she fluttered her lashes at Josiah, leaned slightly toward him, and silently invited him to partake.
Which he was happy to do.
The result, after a minute or two, was less flash than fizzle. Ugh. Damp. Soft. Squishy. Cecelia drew upright, disappointed. Marriage. Did she want to be married to a man whose kisses left her limp…not with desire, but with distaste?
Josiah seemed quite satisfied, however. He was grinning sappily, like a circus clown, because she had granted him this extraordinary favor. Still beaming, he popped his hat back upon his head and extended his arm to her. “So, my dear, if you’re quite ready to leave, I shall walk you home.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
For such a large room, it was stuffed with furniture and furbelows, overcrowded and overheated, and dark to the point of inducing claustrophobia. Cecelia, seated carefully in a stiff horsehair chair, tried stretching slightly away from the tight boned neckline of her silk plaid afternoon dress, even while cursing her overactive imagination. What she wouldn’t give to rip open those funeral draperies and thrust up every window pane to good old summer California sun!
“It’s so nice to meet you at last, my dear,” said Mrs. Augusta Kingsley from her position behind a tea tray.
Josiah had at last persuaded her to call upon his mother, in the formidable residence they shared, this lovely Saturday with a breeze blowing in across the Bay. Only just arrived, and already Cecelia was mentally counting the minutes until she could depart.
Taking the High Road Page 2
