by Ann Moore
“No.” Peter attempted to rise from his chair. “I’m going over there to see her myself. Right now.”
“Sit down.” Darmstadt’s weak push on Peter’s shoulder was all it took to collapse the man. “You’re not in any condition to go anywhere.” He went to the desk, got out paper and pen, then brought them to Reinders. “Write to her and ask her to come first thing in the morning.”
Detra nodded encouragingly. “He’s right, Peter. Give her some advance warning. After all, it’s been a very long time since the two of you laid eyes upon one another. She’ll want a chance to bathe and change her dress, do up her hair. Prepare herself.”
“She’s not like that.”
“She’s a woman, isn’t she?”
An image of Grace came flooding back—standing on the deck of the Eliza J the morning they’d buried Liam’s mother at sea; exhausted and stoic, she’d kept her head held high, a protective arm around each child, supporting them in their grief.
“Not like any woman I’ve ever known. Present company excepted, of course,” he added gallantly.
“Write your note, dear boy.” Detra smiled gently. “Then get a good night’s rest. No woman wants to see the man she loves looking as if he is upon death’s door.”
Reinders was too exhausted to protest, though suddenly he yearned to see Grace, to hear her voice, feel the touch of her hand. He thought again of the afternoon they’d spent together before he’d left New York, the way the setting sun had filtered through the curtains of his room, bathing her skin in a warm glow, her lashes dark against her cheek as she slept; how many times had he revisited that room, that bed, the woman upon it? He shook his head. Too many to count. He picked up the pen.
Dearest Grace,
I can hardly believe you are here at last.…
Lars waited until Reinders had finished his missive, then handed it over to the errand boy to deliver at first light.
Too worn out even to eat, Peter allowed himself to be helped up to his room, where he undressed and lay down upon his bed. He’d thought he might lie awake for hours, thinking of Grace and the future, now that she’d come, but the feather bed was unbelievably soft after months on a hard plank, and he sunk into it, reaching down for the duvet, his eyes closing before he’d drawn it even halfway up.
Reinders awoke, in what felt like only minutes, to the sound of a commotion downstairs, of loud greetings and laughter, and then the pounding of boots on the stair, before his chamber door was thrown open.
“Peter, she’s come!” Lars announced. “She’s downstairs even as we speak. What a charming young woman she is! I had no idea!” He clapped his hands together with great satisfaction. “All these years and I never pictured someone as lovely as that. You haven’t done her justice, Peter,” he scolded good-naturedly. “What on earth she sees in you, I’ll never know, but you’d better get down there before she comes to her senses. She’s not wearing trousers, by the way,” he added, a note of disappointment in his voice. “Don’t know what Arnott was on about there. No trousers,” he repeated, and then his face brightened again. “But the most lovely green skirt and neatly trimmed jacket, and a wonderful hat …”
Reinders lay, unable to move, stunned as much by the verbal barrage as he was by the fact that she was actually here, a mere floor below, and he was still in his nightclothes.
“Get up right now!” Lars went to Peter’s wardrobe and began rummaging through the possibilities. “Here.” He held out a clean white shirt and a pair of fairly new breeches. “Put these on. Everything’s going to be too big, but these will do. C’mon, man—you’re not going to let a little malaria keep you away from that beautiful creature, are you?”
Reinders sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, closing his eyes again as a wave of dizziness nearly tipped him back over.
“Sorry, old man.” Darmstadt laid the clothes on the bed, reversing his enthusiasm immediately. “Of course. Take your time. Shall I send Arnott up to help you dress?”
“No,” Reinders growled, eyes still closed. “Do it myself. Need fresh water, though.”
“I’ll have the girl bring it up right away.” Darmstadt went to the window and drew back the curtains.
Reinders winced against the bright light. “What time is it?”
“Not quite ten. We’ve breakfasted, but I’ll have tea sent into the parlor for you and Missus Donnelly. Detra and I have to go out.”
“Since when?” Peter pulled the nightshirt off over his head, then reached for his undervest.
“Since we thought you might like a little privacy,” Darmstadt admitted sheepishly. “Detra’s idea, of course. You know women.”
“I’m not so sure I do.” Reinders buttoned up the white shirt, then stood to put on his breeches.
“Just be yourself,” Darmstadt advised. “Actually, pretend to be me. I’ve always had wonderful success.” He grinned. “See you downstairs in a few minutes, then?”
Reinders nodded. “Soon as I’m dressed.”
It took much longer than a few minutes, Reinders noted, as he finished bathing his face and brushing his hair; he wished he’d had time to shave, but the beard would have to do. The smallest of tasks still left him exhausted, but his heart was pounding at the thought of seeing Grace, and he hoped she wouldn’t be disappointed. Had he aged so much? he wondered, looking at himself in the glass. Certainly his hair had been thicker and longer in New York, and his face marked less by time—when had those creases that lined his forehead appeared? Or the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, around his ears? He had to admit he’d cut a better figure back in those days and, of course, he hadn’t resembled the walking cadaver he was now. I look like an old man, he suddenly realized, then clenched his jaw, refusing to participate in such vain foolishness. He looked like what he was—a seasoned sea captain in midlife, one who had been recently beset by terrible illness. A few weeks’ rest and good food, the presence of the woman he loved, and he would regain his vim and vigor in no time. Resolve firmly in place, he left the room and made his way slowly down the stairs, pausing only a moment outside the parlor before pushing open the doors.
“Peter!”
Grace leapt to her feet and Reinders braced himself, sure she was about to rush into his arms, but surprisingly she did not. Instead, she stood with her hands awkwardly by her sides as if suddenly unsure how to act around him, and this only increased his own uncertainty.
“It’s good to see you, Grace,” he said politely, frustrated by his own stubborn reserve. “How have you been?” How have you been? How have you been? Reinders could’ve bashed himself in the head—was he reverting to the tongue-tied bumbler he’d been when they first met?
“Well, I”—Grace hesitated, took a step forward, then stopped—“I’m fine, Peter. And you?”
There was an awkward pause as Reinders opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
“Well, then.” Lars rose from his chair and Detra followed suit. “You must excuse us, Missus Donnelly, as my wife and I have previously scheduled and unavoidable business.” He took Grace’s hands and held them warmly. “It has been an absolute delight to meet you at last, my dear, and I know we shall all dine together very soon.”
Detra took up Grace’s hands when Lars had released them. “And I look forward to meeting your children,” she added graciously. “We’re so very glad you have all arrived safely.”
“Thank you so much. I’m happy to have met you, as well. Peter has always spoken so highly of you both.” Grace found Reinders’ eyes, and then she, too, was at a loss for words.
Lars and Detra made a hasty exit, murmuring their farewells, barely noticed by the two left behind. When the door had closed, a silence wrapped around Peter and Grace, broken only by the ticking of the mantel clock and the crackle of a freshly laid fire.
“Are you well?”
“You’ve been ill.”
They spoke at the same time, then laughed self-consciously.
“I have been ill,�
� Reinders admitted. “And I’m afraid I have to sit down now or risk falling flat on my face.”
“Oh, Peter! I didn’t realize … Let me help you.” Grace’s concern overrode her shyness and she came quickly to his side, wrapping one arm around his waist to steady him, his arm over her shoulder, as she moved him toward his chair.
He closed his eyes and felt the warmth of her body beside his, her solid presence. I only want to kiss her, he thought. I should kiss her now, and then we’ll be as we were.
“Aye,” he heard her say and felt the press of her lips against his.
He returned her kiss, lightly at first, and then—as she pressed herself against him—with greater urgency, not wanting to stop, losing himself in the deliriousness of this moment out of time. He wrapped his arms more tightly around her and dropped his mouth to her neck, breathing more heavily now, his head swimming.
“Ahem.” Arnott, tea tray in hand, cleared his throat pointedly from the doorway.
Startled, Grace and Peter stepped apart, Grace now flushed with embarrassment, Peter with irritation.
“Shall I bring this in, Captain?”
“Put it over there.” Reinders jerked his chin toward Detra’s writing desk. “That will be all.”
Arnott took his time setting out the cups and saucers, the teapot, and the plate of scones Detra had ordered. There was a smirk on his face that Reinders didn’t like, and finally the captain had had enough.
“That’ll be all, Arnott,” he repeated tersely. “Close the door on your way out.”
“Very good, sir. I’ll say you’re not to be disturbed.” The butler bowed languidly, then crossed the room and went into the hall, reaching back in for the doors, which he pulled closed with agonizing slowness.
“He reminds me of that Boardham,” Grace noted. “Your old ship’s steward. Remember him?”
“How could I forget?” Reinders ran his hand over the top of his closely shorn hair. “He caused us all a lot of trouble. Got away with murder, the cowardly bas—” He glanced at Grace. “You remember Tom Dean? From the ship?”
“Aye. He was one of your best, you said. But you know, Boardham got his own back in the end,” Grace reported grimly. “Washed up on shore with his throat cut. Dugan sent me the article out of the paper, just so I’d know he wasn’t still out there looking to cause us misery.”
“Those were the days, eh?” Reinders shook his head ruefully, then lowered himself into his chair. “Forgive me, I have to sit. I’ll have to build up my strength if you’re going to kiss me like that.”
Grace blushed to her hairline. “Will you have your tea, then, Peter? Shall I bring it over to you?”
Reinders nodded, and she set up on the small table by his chair, crowding the top with two cups, saucers, and the plate of scones. Next, she carried over Detra’s smaller writing chair and put it close to the captain’s. She sat, and they looked at each other in silence, hardly daring to believe they were actually in the same room, neither one knowing where to start.
“You look tired, Peter,” she began, hesitantly. “And you’re so very thin.”
“Malaria.” He put a hand up to his face, felt the hollows beneath his cheekbones, the scratchy stubble. “Sorry I’m not cleaned up properly.”
“I like you with a beard. You were sporting one the first time we met aboard ship in Liverpool. Do you remember?”
“I do. And you were sporting indignation.” He laughed. “Nothing but trouble, right from the start.”
Grace ignored his teasing. “Then, when I saw you again in the city at Lily’s stall, you’d shaved it off and I hardly recognized you.” She reached out tentatively and stroked the side of his face. “Though I’d know you anywhere now, with or without it.”
Reinders caught her hand and kissed the tender flesh of her palm; he’d forgotten how much he loved that hand, the square shape of it, the long fingers—it was a hardworking hand, a hand capable of great strength, of holding on. Pressing his lips even more tightly against the fragrant skin, he closed his eyes and felt tears stinging behind the lids. What was the matter with him, he wondered, that he was so easily overcome?
“You’re worn out, is all,” Grace assured him, gently withdrawing her hand. “You’ve had a hard time of it, Peter. I can see it in your eyes. But you’re home now. And I’m here to take care of you.”
He turned away, embarrassed by his show of emotion and by the fact that it was she who comforted him rather than the other way around; this was not the reunion he’d imagined so many times.
Grace sensed his discomfort and changed the subject. “Was Liam ill, as well?” she asked, knowing he’d respond to any question about their boy. “Is he here with you now?”
“No.” Reinders faced her again and accepted the cup of tea she poured out for him. “To both questions. Strong constitution, that boy—he and Mack are the only reasons I’m sitting here.” His hand shook slightly as he lifted the cup. “He’s a fine seaman, Grace; you’d be so proud of him. They’re down on the ship right now, taking care of business.”
“I can’t wait to see him. And Mary Kate is beside herself, quite sure you’d both been captured by pirates. She and Jack discuss it daily.” Her eyes sparkled. “You’ll like Jack.”
“From your letters, I already do.” His smiled faded. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived, Grace. To help you. I know how brutal the overland trip is, and I thought about you all the time. You must have been exhausted, and then Mary Kate getting sick, and Jack to take care of.” He sighed. “I just can’t believe I wasn’t here …”
“And how were you to know, then? ’Twasn’t ’til we’d passed through Utah Territory that I began to think Sean might’ve joined the miners out here. Mary Kate falling ill was like a sign from God, and that’s when I knew for sure we were coming. But not before then, so how could you’ve known?”
“Sean’s here, then? You found him?”
Grace shook her head. “I’ve been asking round, though. Plenty of Irish passing through here—Mormons, as well—and one day somebody’ll have something to tell me about him.”
“Have you taken out notices?”
“Aye. Edward Kemble at the California Star is helping me out with that, and I’ve been down to the school Sam Brannan runs. He said the Utah group’s been sending Saints down to mine, mostly to Mormon Island, but unless they come into the city and look him up, he never sees them. Still, he offered to write a couple of letters to some of his folk living up there now.” She paused and sipped her tea. “Do you know William Shew, has the Daguerreian Saloon? He invited me to look through his images of miners in the field, see if I can’t pick Sean out, but there was nothing. He’s found a few more, though, so I’m going back, end of the week, to try again.”
Reinders was staring at her, mouth open, and then he tipped back his head and laughed.
“What’s so funny, then?”
“Those are noteworthy men,” he said admiringly. “And you’ve got them all on the lookout for your brother! How on earth did you meet them?”
“At Doctor Wakefield’s house. They come for dinner now and then. I’m cook there,” she added. “Did you know that? That I’m hired on?”
“Maybe you’d better start from the beginning.” Reinders set his cup aside and leaned back in the chair.
Grace hesitated—he looked so tired—but when he promised to eat a buttered scone and take another cup of tea, she agreed. Knowing there’d be time for details later, she told him briefly about joining the wagon train in Kansas and heading out along the Oregon Trail, the months of coping with mud and flooded rivers, then heat and dust, and finally the narrow mountain passes before coming down into the valley. Finally, she told him about Mary Kate’s increasing lethargy and the decision to come by steamboat to San Francisco, of finding the hospital and meeting Sister Joseph, of learning that the Eliza J was in Panama, and of receiving Doctor Wakefield’s offer of employment.
“So you’re head of the kitchen staff?”
>
“I am the kitchen staff.” Grace laughed. “’Tis a small household, though, only the doctor and his sister, who’s”—she thought for a moment—“sickly. There’s a housekeeper and her daughter, and an outdoor man. Mary Kate helps me now she’s better, and Jack likes it well enough for the horses and the dogs, though he misses Kansas and all the gun-fighting.”
“How about you?” Reinders asked. “Are you happy here?”
Grace considered the question. “Aye. ’Tis a good enough place for us. The wage is generous—more than generous—and our rooms are warm and comfortable. Also, there’s a teacher for the children, comes to the house and all.”
“He hired a tutor?” Reinders was skeptical. “Why would he do that?”
“Well, you know—paid or prairie—school’s not worked out well for Mary Kate, and she’s a smart girl, Peter. You’d not believe what goes on inside that head. Anyway, he saw that in her and took an interest. He thinks Jack’s bright, as well, and when he offered, I’d no reason to turn him down, though it struck me as odd. He’s a kind man, Doctor Wakefield is.”
“So I’ve been told.” Reinders frowned. “I guess I should be grateful to him. It could’ve been a lot worse for you—San Francisco is a rough town.”
“Aye, but what a city,” she said fervently. “I pictured tent saloons and iron houses, brown hills and mud to your knees, though I knew from your letters it’d been built up after the fires. The China people call it Gum San, Gold Mountain—I think of it that way now, what with all the money going into buildings and houses and the like.”
“The architecture may be more grand, but brown hills and mud have remained a permanent feature,” he reminded her.
She laughed. “After Oregon and all that lovely green, ’twas a shock to find you were right about there being no trees a’tall. Only, I was taken with it anyway, with the spirit of the place—something to be said for a city that rises up and rebuilds itself over and over again. ’Tis like the emigrants themselves. I knew right away the children and I could make something of ourselves here.”
