Melchior turns with Chucklehead. “Ain’t that way. Have to go south.”
“Ivy—”
Ivy whips around, almost crashing into Sam, who steps back. “I am going for a bath, Sam. I will see you presently and accompany you to the doctor after.”
“Please, you must—”
Why can he not understand? Why can no one understand anything important around here?
Ivy cuts him off. “I just lived nine days like a mountain man. I’ve been bitten by horses and mosquitos and spiders and flies. I half-starved and half-froze. I was thrown from my horse—whom I battled every one of those days. That after narrowly avoiding death on this very doorway. I’ve been shot at, slept in dirt, fallen in dirt, sat in dirt, lived in dirt and dust, and suffered personal indecencies and humiliations. I have not been properly warm and dry and comfortable and fed, all at once, in weeks. I have not had a solid night’s sleep or a balanced meal in equally as long. I realize I need to see a doctor. I will go. Please make an appointment, if you wish. I shall go this evening. Now, I am returning to our boarding house for a hot bath and I do not wish to be disturbed for any reason for at least two hours.”
Cloak pulled tight about herself, Ivy stalks away, moving fast up the main street, hardly limping, past men, women, and children who regard her with interest, to Mrs. Acker’s boarding house on the east edge of town.
Grateful now for Isaiah bidding her keep the money she tried to pay the maker, Ivy presses twenty dollars in coins into the matron’s hand the moment she opens the door and, for the first time, sees the old Englishwoman smile.
“Please, I cannot speak Spanish. Will you tell the girl I need a store-bought dress, chemise, corset, underclothes, hat, stockings, handkerchiefs, hairpins, soap—everything imaginable. I can make alterations myself if you have a sewing kit. While she is out, I would like a bath. Do you have a tub in the scullery? My cousin will be along promptly to pay for our rooms if you have same available. This is only for the shopping and bath and yourself.”
Miracles.
Smelling like a chimney, Mrs. Acker whisks Ivy to the kitchen, shouts for the girl of all work, assures Ivy all her clothing which can be saved will be saved by washing, then switches to Spanish as Señorita arrives with a curtsey.
After helping Ivy draw the bath into a zinc-coated tin bathtub in the scullery and bringing in cotton towels, Señorita dashes off shopping, all chatter and excitement over her task.
Ivy drags a heavy barrel against the shut door before peeling off layers.
Steam lifts into her face and she must ease, one foot at a time, into precious water. Sixteen years old and all this time she imagined libraries, beautiful music and works of art, streets lined with shops, a night at the opera and great cathedrals, clockwork creatures, dirigibles sailing above the harbor, electricity and gigantic steam engines were all riches—life’s wonders and miracles.
Only to discover cash creates miracles, while soap and warm water are the pinnacle of all possible achievement.
The metal bathtub is far too small to submerge. Almost too small to wash in. But Ivy pretends to soak, scrubbing her hair, burning her eyes on oatmeal soap, then spending twenty minutes on her fingernails with the little bar. Though red, raw, painful, and still open in a few places which need stitches, her left elbow does look much better than it might as she holds it underwater.
She tries draining and refilling the bath on her own, but has only cold water without the girl’s pots and kettles from the kitchen. Rinsing in warm but muddy water, or cold and clean? She tries some of the cold, with the result that her teeth are chattering and she is hopping in place with towels about her in the tiny scullery when the girl of all work knocks at the door. She leaves new attire outside so Ivy can grab it all with the towels around herself.
A clean chemise of soft cotton, a simple yellow dress of no special cut or fit which she can take in at the waist and shoulders. No extra frill, very little lace. The stockings are rough, the new handkerchiefs of poor quality.
For corset, Señorita has brought only a strange, dense piece of material, apparently layered canvas, with cotton cord and eyelets: a girl’s corset, small, yielding, it has no bone, steel, or wood slats, but offers some support if tightly laced.
Sam awaits her in the foyer, still dusty himself and flinching from Mrs. Acker, who is barraging him with a tirade about ... something. Social reform perhaps. Ivy feels certain it has been nowhere near two hours. Do they choose to ignore her, or truly misunderstand? She knows Sam possesses a handsome silver pocket watch and, unlike Oliver, has seen him consult it.
Sam smiles at Mrs. Acker, though he looks pale as he eases away from the matron.
“It can be just the same in the States, right enough. Out here, not a hope of—”
“Yes, Mrs. Acker. Quite so, I am sure.” He spots Ivy, stepping toward her with an ingratiating smile still in place.
“Doesn’t take a body long to gather which way—”
“No, of course not. Thank you, Mrs. Acker.” He holds out his left arm to Ivy. “All right? The doctor is expecting you.”
“Can it wait a moment? My hair is soaked.”
He gives her an almost beseeching look.
Ivy lets out her breath, tries to smile, fails, rests her hand on his dirty sleeve and follows him out.
“How is your arm?”
“Did you secure our rooms again? What happened with the sheriff?”
“Scarcely. She did not wish to let us have two at all. It seems a large number of people have entered the city while we were away. She claims this is due to the wedding, though I wonder if more small farmers and ranchers than we realized are suspicious of the nearing sickness and also seeking shelter.”
“Wedding?”
“Our friend Oliver’s. Melchior says a wedding here is an extravagant event which will make the place ‘a regular fine city again.’”
Ivy squints through low sunlight and dust below her second new hat. “It sounds as if everyone is invited.... I do not have anything to wear to a wedding.” Then closes her lips to keep from going on with her greater concern: how much of Oliver’s time will this wedding take up?
Sam smiles. “You look lovely the way you are. And, yes, it seems taken for granted that all are invited. More a community event than the formal ceremony you and I may be accustomed to.”
She looks ahead, hoping the flush does not show in her cheeks. “What of our bounty?”
“Melchior had to return with Grip to the jail in an effort to meet with Sheriff Thurman. I am uncertain as to the man’s trustworthiness. It seems he is not an elected public servant at all, according to Grip.”
Ivy frowns. “They think we may get ... nothing? After all that?”
“I have no idea. Since he gave Melchior the notice in the first place, I certainly hope he can honor its claim.”
Ivy is still stewing over this when she spots a two-story timber house in a row not far from the north bank of the river. Out front, a wooden sign proclaims that here resides Doctor Hintzen.
The doctor’s wife greets them and shows Ivy into a side room just off the entrance. The chair, table, instruments, all remind Ivy vividly of tools from her father’s trade. But not in a good way. Some which should be in surgical spirits simply lie on a low counter. Others have rust starting. Still others are museum pieces.
Ivy sits uneasily, wishing Sam had been permitted to stay with her.
She is on the verge of getting up to call him when another door opens and the broad-shouldered, bearded doctor steps in. He is a German man with a marked accent and abrupt manner which does something to sooth Ivy’s nerves despite his equipment. Some of her father’s most skilled peers at home are Germans. He always told her it is a nation of tremendous scientific, philosophical, and social intellect. Her mother, who was of Danish heritage, chided him not to forget neighbors when he said so.
After introducing himself, Dr. Hintzen sits opposite her to examine the arm and ask how it happened.
“Yes, yes, yes,” he mutters under the thick beard. “You kept it well. It must be probed and every fragment removed. Then stitched.”
Ivy nods. She knows what needs to be done. This is not what worries her.
“Now....” He turns in his chair, studying rows of instruments and glass bottles. “There is a great shortage with rails closed. I can inject cocaine in a sparing dose. It will scarcely numb the arm.”
Ivy lets out her breath, for a moment having been sure he was about to say he could give her nothing. “That is quite all right.”
“You will need to keep your face turned. I can ask Gratia to—”
“Really, I am all right. I’m not squeamish. I can look away and will be fine with the needles.”
When he does not appear convinced, standing up for instruments and moving to the door, Ivy adds, “My father is a doctor.”
“Ah.” He smiles for the first time. “Around here?”
“Boston.”
“I see.” The smile slips.
Ivy is unsure what she said, but the man seems even more businesslike, deft and precise as he moves about, gathering what he needs on a steel tray.
She does not mind syringes—her father says they are wonderful things. As her arm begins to tingle, it strikes her that he is the reason for Dr. Hintzen’s stiff manner. Saying your father is a doctor in Boston means something out here. Perhaps this man feels she will be going home to tell tales of the sorry medical profession out West.
Indeed, as he works, he drops little remarks like, “You will forgive our low stock at the moment.” And, “I do hope we might have new instruments in from Denver by and by. One falls behind so far from the manufacturers.”
She expected the drug to be given sparingly, yet feels nothing as he extracts rock fragments from her flesh, then cleans the wound, stitching in two places. In fact ... she rather suspects he overcompensated....
The room shifts. His words slur in her ears, growing louder, then fainter as if a door is being opened and closed while he speaks.
By the time he helps her return to the waiting Sam, she walks with difficulty, leaning heavily on the doctor. Not only her left arm, but most of the left side of her body feels numb.
Dr. Hintzen says something to Sam about her, though Ivy cannot hear despite being right beside him. Sam, looking concerned, answers in equally near silence, gives the man something, then helps her out.
Maybe Señorita will fix dinner. She must have other guests now. Perhaps she already has duck and cranberry sauce and roast potatoes. How Ivy would love a roast potato. And lobster. She has always dearly loved lobster, despite her mother looking down on it as poor man’s fare and too hideous to bring one into the house. Strange. They were not so terribly rich, though more than comfortable. And her mother was not one to put on airs or overplay her place in society. Yet, there were those few things, like more than proper evening attire if going to an evening event. And no lobster.
How Ivy longs for a lobster and roast potato. A bit of parsley and pat of fresh, melting butter.
She will go home and sit down to lobster and potatoes with green salad while Mother is out. Last time Mother was away visiting friends for a weekend, Ivy and her father brought home two huge lobsters and ate like lords—or inmates, by Mother’s view.
Strange how she does not seem to be reaching home. In fact, she is not even walking. She is floating. Her feet bob gently in the air, her body relaxed.
Well ... this ... she is unsure what to make of this. She knows she has never floated home before. Perhaps ... someone carries her. Not Josiah White from down the block, surely. That tempestuous boy. A year younger than Ivy and Kitty, but sure he knows everything there is to know about society in general and young ladies in particular. How far off he is. She would die of shame if Josiah White had to carry her home one evening. Is he even stout enough? He is hardly taller or broader in the shoulder than herself. Father then? Yes, he could take her home and show her the lobster for a surprise. Or maybe he is taking her up to bed. She feels vaguely that she rises along a dim corridor. Stairs, a hall, up to her own bedroom. Best—though she is so dreadfully hungry—to rest first. She would nod off at the table if taken there. Even over lobster.
Her father carries her into her room, then rests her so, so gently on her bed. It must be her bed, though it feels stiff, almost solid. She wriggles down, sighs. Oh, well. Still good to be home. Good to be in bed. Good to look forward to lobster and salad. And a wedding. She cannot remember who is getting married, but she smiles also at the thought of a wedding. So much to come.
His fingers touch her face, she thinks, or else he kisses her forehead. Funny, she cannot feel the scratch of his beard. But she smiles more, delighting in the feel of her whole body as limp and light as fresh snow, before she drifts away.
Fourteenth
Wedding Dances
More settlers and ranchers drift in, filling hotels and boarding houses, staying with friends or moving into abandoned and unlocked homes. No one seems to mind. As if the locals expected new neighbors at any time. Some for the wedding, yet many arrive with tales of demon sightings: eight-foot beasts with dripping fangs, slouching through darkness, visible by gleaming red eyes. Far from striking terror into the hearts of the natives, men laugh while women cross themselves and go back to work.
After a day of bed rest with a pounding headache, watching out her window toward the invisible Plaza—central gathering point of markets, hangings, public meetings, celebrations—Ivy feels slightly overwhelmed by crowds and decorations swelling town. Not that the place has become a metropolis overnight, but where there used to be strands of dry chiles or garlic hanging from roof awnings, now strings of paper lanterns fill the Plaza and line streets, smells of cooking fill the air, endless commotion hums with preparations of outdoor dance floors and horse races. Where there used to be two or three men standing about the casas reales portal on a Thursday afternoon, now there are twenty or thirty. The casas reales itself is also prepared to host the wedding reception. This structure, which Ivy hears most Anglos call the Palace of the Governors, or only the Palace, is so unlike a palace, she at first assumed the term to be ironic. A one-story, adobe building, extraordinarily long with many doors and tall, narrow windows, it more closely resembles a giant, elderly caterpillar than a palace or manor house. The front “portal,” a covered porch, runs the length of the Plaza, which it faces across wide Palace Avenue. Now it feels as if the caterpillar is bursting from a cocoon, spreading wings, taking over the whole of the Palace, the Plaza, plus surrounding streets.
All this for the man she is counting on to build her a way home. The man she owes at least ten thousand dollars. As much as she wishes to feel happy for him, weddings take up a great deal of time. Not to mention marriages. What about a honeymoon? How much will his work be interrupted?
Grip was able to get the unreliable Sheriff Thurman to turn over their reward, but they must hold some back to keep paying their own and their horses expenses.
Now Melchior has their cash. Sam and Ivy wait to meet him beside the Plaza while he pays off the livery owner, Mr. Quiles, before they are all supposed to be meeting Oliver and coming up with ideas for financing the steamcoach.
Tapping her foot below the yellow skirt, Ivy shifts her gaze from men pacing off a sprint line for a horse race—is it safe to have them downtown?—to glance at Sam. She already apologized for anything she may have done or said under the effects of the doctor’s painkillers. Sam only smiled, saying he had not previously seen her look so happy.
“Shall we find him?” she asks. “We cannot go on. He has the money.”
Sam nods, then looks past her, his brows knitting.
Ivy follows his gaze to a lanky, bow-legged man leading a horse up the street toward them. Ivy blinks, stares at the horse. Taller than most cowhorses, with a dangerous look in his dark eye; black head, legs, mane, and tail, with a blue-gray, roaned body. He walks with his ears pinned down, lashing his tail.
>
Sam is still frowning at the horse as Ivy steps forward before the man can pass them. “Excuse me, sir.”
“Miss?” He touches his hat, pausing.
“What are you doing with that horse?”
He lifts his eyebrows. “I just bought him, miss.”
“Bought...? That is not possible. That animal belongs to my cousin.”
“Your cousin Mr. L’Heureux? Son of the horse trainer Charles L’Heureux?”
“Correct.”
“Sorry to hear about the loss of your uncle, miss. I just bought this stallion from the son, as I say. Tells me he’s not proper broke and his father never got much of a chance to work him before his untimely demise. A sad business, but I’m glad to help out. The young man did seem to need the money powerful bad.”
“Is that so? Well....” Bewildered, Ivy looks at Sam, who remains mute behind her. “We are grateful, I’m sure.”
The man walks on, the horse following, then lunging ahead, nearly knocking the rangy man down.
Ivy spins around to Sam. “What do you know about this?”
He will not meet her eyes. “You may wish to speak to him about—”
“I am asking you—” She stops herself, catches her breath. “I beg your pardon, Sam. But what is going on?”
Sam looks up and Ivy turns to see Melchior approaching in dust tracks just left by his horse. Grinning.
“Got you another bundle,” he calls before Ivy can speak. “Ready to see your maker pal?”
“Have you forsaken your mind? You truly just sold your horse? I wouldn’t even sell my horse and she has been a problem since the day we met—no offense, Sam, you know I am grateful to have her.”
Melchior looks as smug as before, holding up his cash pouch to show her. “Aiming to turn down forty-five? Want to hand it back?”
“Forty...? What? That man said you sold him untrained.”
“Said he was a mean cuss too.” Melchior pockets the coins. “Don’t get all flighty. He’ll be back.”
“What? That man is returning him?”
Melchior shrugs. “Sometimes they bring him in to spit at me. Sometimes he comes on his own. Either way, they don’t ask for their money back. I never sell them anything but a plug. Such a fine looker, don’t matter.”
Lightfall One: Clock, Cloak, Candle (Lightfall, Book 1) Page 14
