Widow 1881_Flats Junction Series
Page 1
Widow
1881
MORE ON FLATS JUNCTION
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OTHER BOOKS IN THE
FLATS JUNCTION SERIES
Smith
Outcast
Medicineman
Steelmaker
Stranger
Widow
1881
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Flats Junction Series
Book One
S A R A D A H M E N
Coppersmith Press LLP
an imprint of
Sillan Pace Brown Group
_________________
PORTLAND NEW YORK LOS ANGELES BRUSSELS
Widow
Copyright © 2018 Sara Dahmen. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Care has been taken in properly representing the names and language of the Sioux, but the beautiful words cannot always be perfectly represented, and the author asks forgiveness from the original caretakers of the Plains, and continues to study Lakȟótiyapi every week to better understand and speak it.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
Visit our website at www.sillanpacebrown.com
First Printing 2018
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. For information, address Sillan+Pace+Brown Group or its imprint, Coppersmith Press LLP.
ISBN 10: 1-64058-020-4
ISBN 13: 978-1-64058-020-6
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017913679
Editor: Craig Anderson
Cover Design: Ann Weinstock
Interior Artwork Copyright © 2018 Sara Dahmen
Coppersmith Press, an Imprint of Sillan+Pace+Brown Group LLC
Sillian+Pace+Brown Publishing
Portland, Oregon
U.S.A.
1. Historical fiction 2.Women’s fiction 3. Western fiction 4. Pioneer fiction
5. Native American 6. South Dakota 7. 19th c. medicine
To Katie and Heather
always my first editors
and for always reading
and my husband,
who allows me to disappear for weeks
in the crazed writing silence that comes out of the blue.
Box 30
February 3, 1881
Dear Sir or Madam,
I am writing in regards to the notice in the Boston Advertiser for a housekeeper. Until my husband’s passing, I managed our household, some plain cooking, and general nursing for him. My husband’s affairs are nearly in order, and I would be available to take the train to the Territories as soon as 1 March.
It appears $6 per week is the expected rate in Boston for a housekeeper, but I am very willing to take a reduced wage if room and board are included and to account for any discrepancies between the city and the west. My recommendations and references are few, but we might arrange a meeting if it will facilitate this opportunity further.
The west has always garnered some particular fascination for me, and I look forward to an opportunity to experience it. As for my sturdiness, I assure you I am not lacking.
You may contact me through my late husband’s offices. I appreciate your consideration.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Jane Weber
c/o Ward & Weber Shipping
Boston
Mrs. Jane Weber
c/o Ward & Weber Shipping
Boston
February 15
Madam,
Please excuse my delay as I required some weeks to telegram west. I write on behalf of my colleague, Doctor Patrick Kinney, who works in Flats Junction, Dakota Territory and requires a housekeeper and cook. The winter has been especially difficult in the Territories this year, and I have had to wait to receive his response.
The death of his elderly relation has left him without means to manage his house and he has asked me to solicit someone as soon as possible. We believe your background in simple nurse duties will be helpful as Doctor Kinney handles all manner of illness and issue—both man and beast—and any assistance would be beneficial.
My wife, Tara, will meet you this Wednesday at the Tremont to disclose all the particularities of your arrangement and to receive any of your references. While you seem very eager to begin your adventure, the weather in the Territories will likely keep you in Boston until later in March.
Please plan to be at the Tremont in three days at noon. I have also enclosed the correspondence between Doctor Kinney and me pertaining to your employment.
Sincerely,
Dr. Robert MacHugh
Box 30
Boston
February 18, 1881
Dear Dr. R. MacHugh,
Please extend my deepest regards to your wife for her time and company at the Tremont earlier this week. Mrs. MacHugh led me to believe the position is mine to take, and I hope to reassure you with this note that I am ready as soon as spring allows for better travel.
The reduced wage, while lower than I had hoped, will suffice with room and board included, and I look forward to confirming the appointment with your colleague in the Dakotas. In truth, I am relieved my lack of references did not meet with more resistance. As Mrs. MacHugh may have mentioned, I have little to keep me in Boston with my husband’s passing in December, and I would like to find some way to busy myself away from society. It seems Providence certainly has a hand in this situation.
I received your additional note regarding which train lines to take out from Boston, and which to switch to in Chicago and Milwaukee. I will plan to go through Vermillion and Yankton to Flats Junction, and I will await further instructions with anticipation.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Jane Weber
Boston
12 March 1881
Black is proper.
Black covers my closets and my body, drowning me in the rules, expectations, and pity that come with it. I know all the rules, and I’ve followed them as precisely as I should. Well, except for the one week when I didn’t, and now I must suffer those consequences. I suppose there is many a good reason a woman in black shouldn’t follow temptation or allow her curiosity to take over in the absence of a sturdy husband.
Smoothing the fine black wool skirt over my knees, I gaze out of Mother’s parlor window and absently pet the frail china vase she sets out for visitors to see from the street. Fear, despair, and something like exhilaration battle in my mind and chase around my chest as the heaviness of Mother’s borrowed jet brooch weighs me down. I’ll have to return it when my mourning is over.
The tinkle of a tea tray heralds her entry, and she drifts in behind the maid. I wait for Mother to sit and shoo Mary away before taking my old childhood seat to her right.
“Will you pour, Jane?”
I take the silver pot, testing the weight of it as I lift and pour into the elegant cups set out for the occasion. She watches quietly, adding a lump of sugar and a sliver of lemon with the small pewter fork. I stare at her soft white hands and the gleam of the tea set and note the nutmeg dusted across the top of the bread. Will spice be easy to find in the Dakotas? Will I be able to use half the recipes I know?
“Are you sure, Jane, that you want to do this?” Mother asks. Her eyebrows are high, and the slim fing
ers holding her tea cup grip hard and tight as her knuckles quiver. “Your father and I have room here.”
Mother’s voice is cultured and gentle. She means it would be the appropriate next step. Without a home or children, or even my late husband’s business to keep me in Boston, a proper, well-bred widow woman would do her job best by fading into obscurity, letting the blacks of her gown fade to purple and violet and grey. She assumes I am what I have long strived to be since I married: decorous, respectable, and amiable. She doesn’t know I am running from her as well as everyone else; that this dash to the West is more than a fanciful, grief-stricken whim. Like my father and sister, Anne, Mother thinks I have once again read far too much than is good for me and that I have been taken with the claims of Western adventure. Anne expects me back within a month. I hope I prove her wrong. I’ll have to prove her wrong.
I don’t bother to answer my mother’s hidden request. There’s nothing more to say. The train leaves Rockport in roughly an hour. Though the tea cools quickly in the china, I drink slowly and with care, savoring the sugar and the lemon I’ve added. My research didn’t need to be deep to understand how lemons will likely be hard to find in the Territories.
Will I ever taste a lemon again?
What will it be like? How will I fit in? I know my place in Massachusetts. First, the daughter of a businessman, and then the wife of one. I understand my place as a widow too, and perhaps I would have succumbed to it had I not been free with my curiosity after my husband passed. I will be hired help in the West, and not much more. But it is the safest course given the research I’ve gleaned in the hidden corners of the Boylston Street Public Library. I will have a better chance in the West—for everything.
“Mother, I’ll miss you,” I say suddenly, heading off the next round of indirect pleading she is certain to try. “But you know me.”
Her mouth goes slack and pulls down, revealing the wrinkles she tries so hard to hide with powder and ointment. She’s still beautiful to me, though, and I reach to grasp her hand.
“I gave up adventuring when I was a child. I have a chance now, and the funds to do it. When else will I have such a choice? But I’ll still miss you.”
She sighs and smiles lightly. “I suppose I should not be surprised. If Anne had done this, that would be far more extraordinary. But it will be an experience, I’m sure.”
Likely there will be so many experiences I’ll be light-headed and spinning in short order. But it will be research of its own kind, and I believe I can manage that. If there is anything good that comes from widowhood, it is that I can make up my own mind without asking anyone else to sanction it.
The mantel clock chimes and I stand, clearing the skinny creases of the wool and shifting the layers of fine petticoats underneath. Mother floats to her feet too, looking stricken and defeated.
When I embrace her, she feels oddly frail and small. The lace on her bodice is crisp and sharp and pointy under my chin, and the swish of her satin gown sounds overloud in the foyer. Father has had the wagon brought to the front and he waits next to it, looking gruff, grizzled, and severe as always. I climb in, the sea wind tickling the edges of my black crepe bonnet, and the heavy salt air soaking into my wilting gloves. Will I wear gloves in the Dakotas? Does anyone?
Yanking hard on the long seam of the left-handed glove, I rip it out so the string dangles, rendering the entire piece useless. It feels strangely vindicating.
Mother waves with her edged hanky, eyes bright. She won’t cry in public—I know this just as sure as I know I have no wish to bring any shame on her, or Father, or even my sister. It’s yet another reason I’m leaving. Father jerks the horse’s reins and clicks his teeth and we’re off, my small carpet bag and trunk bouncing along the cobbled roads.
“Seems a bit dramatic, Jane,” Father comments. “Not that I will try to dissuade you.”
I twist in surprise. “You think I can manage?”
“Well, you’ve handled Henry’s house for the past few years without any mishap.” Father guides the horse around the edge of town, hugging the ocean before we turn toward the train station. “If you can keep house in Boston, I suppose you can in the West. Might be a bit rougher, but you’ll be paid.”
Father doesn’t know how little I’ll make, nor the hazy expectations of my ability to help with patients. Distress and uncertainty have strangled most of the excitement I’ve harbored. Without many photographs or reliable sources other than the few sensational dime novels I’ve secretly scoured, I have had no way to really prepare for this journey. I only know there will not be teas or fancy service or maids. And I am sure there will not be china or silks or lace, and I can only hope there’s some way to get food from a nearby general mercantile. Will I be expected to grow and store the food? Will I butcher my own meat? I hold back a shudder, feeling the shivery shot of panic pull up, and then convince myself once more that Flats Junction is a sound choice. The town can support a full-fledged doctor! It must have some sort of civility and be more than just a shanty-town.
At the train depot, Father helps me out of the wagon and carries my bags stiffly, but purposefully. His back almost creaks with the effort, but he will not have any of his women do such heavy labor. I watch the other men loading trunks and boxes while the women flutter fans and hats and scarves against the chilly breeze whisking through from the water. I tighten my own wraps and wait for Father to handle all the particularities of finding me a seat for the first jump of a tangled journey. It has been odd to be home these past few weeks after the sale of the Boston house, waiting for the weather to clear in the Territories, and getting a sharp taste of widowhood under the roof of my parents. It is almost as if I had never left.
I wait on the cushioned bench at the depot, smashing my hands inside the black fabric of my skirts. Civilization bubbles up suddenly: a waft of the nearby perfumery, the buttery brown puffs from the bakery, and the sounds of hooves on stone-paved roads. The smooth tones of the passing ladies dances over my ears, the clip of their shoes light and neat.
“You’re settled,” Father tells me as he steps from the dusty stair of the train car. The engine huffs its impatience and the fresh paint on the front car gleams black and red and yellow.
“Thank you, Father,” I tell him, hoping to convey more in my tone than I feel I can tell him outright. He takes my hand and presses it, squeezes it, and then releases it. His mouth is tight under the whiskers, and yet he has no air of despair or urgency. He might expect to see me home too, just like Anne does. “I will try to write. And goodbye.”
He nods gravely and rocks back on his heels, hiding his hands behind his waist, and I smile, wishing I could embrace him for all he’d bluster.
It is my own urgency pulling me into the train, my own hope to escape. I find my trunk and hold tightly to my carpet bag. When the locomotive starts, I feel the ties of my life—a curated, careful life—start to fray. I’m not sure if that is frightening or freeing.
Dakota Territory
Chapter 1
20 March 1881
“Madam.” The gruff whisper wakes me.
I blink in the dusky morning. The pasty, round face of the conductor peers down at me. The hard seat, itchy unwashed flannel, and spongy unending smell of wet wool wraps itself around me once again. Why couldn’t he just let me doze? It’s the ticket agent’s job to be polite. What kind of politeness wakes a woman in the middle of a long journey?
“It’s your stop, Madam.”
My head clears as much as it can from sleep. We’ve arrived! Finally!
“Flats Junction?” I ask.
He nods sympathetically, glancing down at the circle of gold on my finger. My ring tells a story of its own, and it has bought some protection on this journey into the West: either I have lost a husband, or I go to this wasteland to stay with one. Neither is easy, just like this horrifically long train ride. They say a person can reach coast to coast on the railroad in less than a week, but my journey from Boston to the Dakotas ha
s been almost nine days. Reports I’d read must not have accounted for the changing of trains, or the occasional worn rail that breaks, or the fact that the weather has been abnormally difficult this year.
I glance outside and shudder as I gather up my smaller bag. It looks like it’s still bitingly cold. I grip my coat tighter around my neck and follow the narrow, dirty path out of the train. I’d been lucky enough to secure a lower berth in the center of the car, and I spent most of the journey escaping the jar of wheels and opening doors, but I am still eager to escape the scents and fumes and choke of smoke and coal. Besides, I am beyond anxious and excited to see my new home. I hope it will be home.
The platform of Flats Junction is brittle and weathered. The creak of planks, boots, and wheels is still subdued. The train groans behind me as the steam billows under my skirts, stuffing more black smoke under my petticoats.
It is a rather large town with a mud-packed main street intersected by a few other wide, rutted dirt roads. I am surprised to see so many houses. I had thought the Territories were sparsely populated. What makes this town so special? Was the train junction here first, or was it the town and then the train? While it is unexpected, I am pleased with the number of families Flats Junction sustains. Perhaps it will not be so desolate here. I pretend I don’t see the raggedy edges of all the buildings, the leftover drifts of snow melting slowly under the ropes strung or broken between homes. As I pause, a tiny Chinese man walks past and whacks a large pig on the bottom with a hard stick. He ignores me completely and hobbles away, shouting a completely indecipherable language and continuing to thwack the sow heartily. He is so small I am not sure the pig can even feel his attack.