Remember My Love

by Elise Dee Beraru

When she opened the cash box she found, as she expected, that it was almost empty. She put the remaining money in a handkerchief and pinned it inside her bodice. She did not even own a reticule, never having need for one.

  Together, the women loaded the drayage trunk onto the wagon bed, along with the cradle and the cat basket. They hitched up the jenny and tied Esmeralda and Mabel to the wagon. Baby in arms, Adele picked up the reins. She didn't look back, for she knew to do so would be to begin to weep and never stop. She would need to keep her wits about her from now on.

  True to his word, Mr. Duneagan had drawn up a mortgage agreement, which Adele signed for both herself and Susannah. He had taken the liberty of purchasing their tickets for them and gave them $200.00 spending money and the remainder as a letter of credit with Wells Fargo in San Francisco.

  "I hope you find that boyo, one way or t'other. I have to think something is seriously wrong with him to have just walked away like that."

  On December 11, 1875, Adele and Beatrice Strange and Susannah Stoddard boarded the twelve fifteen for Salt Lake City.

  As they boarded the train, Susannah looked around the depot to the town behind it and shivered.

  "What's the matter, Susannah?"

  "Just a premonition. I don't think I'm ever going to live in Wyoming again."

  As the train began to pull out of the station, Adele just held Bea to her. In her deepest nightmares she had never imagined this day. If she did not find Brian, she knew she would just die.

  ON DECEMBER 12th, a meeting was going on in a private office set up in a large mansion on Nob Hill in San Francisco. Stephen was sitting in the big leather chair behind a mahogany desk listening to Solomon Pastor, a Wisconsin attorney.

  "Miss Cherry Leval died on November 27th past of consumption. The little boy turned six this past August and is currently living with the mother of Miss Leval's impresario, although my information indicates she'd be just as happy to be rid of the boy."

  "Well," stated Stephen, "assuming my brother is dead, that makes me the boy's uncle and his closest living relative. I'm sure he would be in better shape living with a blood relative than a stranger."

  "I believe the Wisconsin court would be favorable to your petition, Mr. Carroll. With any luck, Joshua Leval could be in San Francisco and in your custody by mid-January."

  "Have you met him, Mr. Pastor?" Stephen inquired.

  "Yes, once. He's a very sweet little boy and the spitting image of you."

  Stephen laughed ironically. "Yes, these Carroll looks. I can see the rumors spreading already that he's my son. Blair had such a low regard for women I was always surprised he was willing to acknowledge--um--Joshua as his, but I guess being told that the boy has the Carroll looks convinced him. Mr. Pastor," he added, shaking the other man's hand, "please proceed with the petition and wire me about when to expect the little boy."

  The meeting over, Stephen poured himself a drink from a decanter on the sideboard and slumped in a wing chair, his eyes closed with a fatigue beyond mere tiredness. He sipped the whisky, its warmth spread through him. He was twenty-six years old, but felt like a hundred. He felt completely out of his depth running the company. He was about to become the guardian to his bastard orphan nephew, and he had to accept that Blair was probably dead.

  The Pinkertons had not turned up a lead in nearly two years and Stephen had finally had to ask them to close their investigation. It was too much for one day. This was not what he had planned for his life when he enrolled at Harvard. He felt so damned lonely. He was beginning to understand how Blair had chafed at running Carroll Enterprises. If it wasn't so lucrative, maybe he should try to convince his father to authorize a sell out.

  "I should write Father a letter today."

  He really should. There was no longer any reason to delay. He had already waited two miserable years. His father had barely responded. The estrangement between the father and his elder son was almost total. Stephen wondered if Oscar even cared that Blair might be dead.

  Stephen rested the tumbler on the arm of the chair, holding it secure with the flat of his palm. He had almost drifted to a light sleep when a knock on the office door blew the cobwebs away.

  "Yes?" he responded to the knock. It was Jennings, the butler who had been employed for about a year.

  "Mr. Carroll, I'm sorry to disturb you like this, but there's a very rough looking fellow at the front door demanding to see you. He keeps insisting his name is Blair Carroll."

  Stephen immediately sat upright. "What does he look like, Jennings?"

  "Oh, quite a ruffian, sir. Sheepskin jacket, muddy trousers, filthy leather gloves and working man's shoes."

  "What color is his hair, his eyes?"

  "Oh, his hair is black, sir, and his eyes look to be close to yours in color. Otherwise I wouldn't have bothered you."

  Stephen was up in a flash and bounded down the stairs. Standing in the entry hall was a six-foot four-inch behemoth dressed as Jennings described with shoulder length, coal black hair, dusty and matted with blood on one side. His face was brown from the sun, but pallid beneath the tan. His mustache nearly obscured his mouth. His eyes were only barely focused.

  Stephen stared into the face of this familiar stranger. His voice choked with disbelief, he croaked, "Blair?"

  The giant glared back. "Stephen, I have a hell of a headache," and fell straight forward into his brother's arms as darkness enveloped him.

  Chapter 10

  Four days later

  BLAIR GLARED again at his work-worn hands. Two years were gone from his life and his only clues were some old clothes, a bunch of calluses and a horseshoe nail ring. Where had he been that he'd worked so hard to have developed so muscular a body and so used a pair of hands? With whom had he been that he let himself become so ill-groomed and rustic?"

  Why was he wearing a horseshoe nail for a ring? He had no answer.

  He looked up at Stephen. "Did you say something about Cherry Leval?"

  "She's dead and your son will be here in about a month."

  He waved Stephen away, nodding. "Fine. Take care of it. I'm so tired all of a sudden."

  ON THE SAME morning during which Blair Carroll awoke to find a black hole in the middle of his life, two pale, anxious and exhausted women, a tired, cranky baby and a skittish tomcat clawing at his basket stumbled off a train at the main terminal in San Francisco. Although Adele had actually been born in Baltimore and had come to the prairie as a toddler, for all intents and purposes this was their first time in a large city. Even in the morning the large station was bustling with activity, passengers and freight arriving and departing.

  "Gosh, I wish I had my sketchbook out, Sissy. I would love to be putting all this down on paper," marveled Susannah. "Have you ever seen so many people in your life?"

  Adele could not help noticing all the activity, despite her tiredness and worry about Brian. "It is quite a crowd. Maybe once we find a place to stay, you can come back here and draw for a while. I know once we find a bed, Bea and I will probably sleep for a week."

  After arranging for the station master to hold their luggage temporarily, Adele and Susannah walked out into the chilly San Francisco morning. Of course, a chilly San Francisco morning in December felt more like a morning in early spring in Wyoming. There was no snow and only a light fog and the temperature was about fifty degrees. Their senses were assaulted with the sight of people of many types; well-dressed American businessmen, ladies of fashion and those of ill repute, dark-skinned Mexican and Yaqui day laborers, the distinctive Chinese in their unfitted garments and queues, working men in their plain, rough garments. It was a kaleidoscope of rapidly moving images.

  "Papa always said if we ever found ourselves in a strange town, we should find the nearest church and ask for help," Adele stated.

  They had not walked very far when they found a local Catholic church. The priest knew an Irish woman who kept a boarding house in a safe part of town. He quickly penned the address and a short letter of recom
mendation. "Mrs. O'Bannion keeps a clean house, serves good meals and loves children and animals and her prices are comparable in the neighborhood. I think you and your sister will be all right there, Mrs. Strange."

  "She won't mind that we're not Catholics?"

  "If you're women of good character, that will be good enough for her. She's a businesswoman first and foremost."

  Mrs. O'Bannion was indeed a businesswoman, but with her wiry graying red hair, round face and full figure she looked like the universal mother figure. She listened to Adele's story about Brian's disappearance patiently. She had two adjoining rooms available and quoted a price of $5.00 per week, including breakfast and supper. For an extra fifty cents, she would even agree to keep an eye on Beatrice when necessary and sent her hired man off to the station to retrieve the luggage, which consisted of the cradle, the trunk and a couple of carpet bags.

  "Now," said Adele, "have you any idea where I can go to find a job?"

  Adele and Susannah had discussed finding work in San Francisco. They agreed that they did not want to draw on the letter of credit if possible in order not to be any more in debt to Mr. Duneagan than necessary.

  "If you can read, you can check the Chronicle for want ads. Otherwise you can walk around and look in shop windows."

  "I can read, Ma'am. I also have enough money to pay for a few weeks' rent until I find something, so you needn't worry on that account."

  "If you don't mind my asking, while you're out working, what's your sister going to do?"

  "She's going to start searching, asking around for clues to my husband's whereabouts. Mrs. O'Bannion, I don't mean to be rude, but we've been sitting up on a train for four days. If you could show us our rooms, I am taking my daughter and myself to bed."

  While Adele and Bea slept, the luggage arrived. Susannah had it brought up to her room, opened it and unpacked her own clothes. Changing into a clean dress, she grabbed her sketchbook and pencils and a couple of sketches of Brian and headed back to the train station. She asked the station master and several of the railroad clerks and personnel if they had seen Brian, showing them her sketches. No one could remember seeing anyone fitting that description in the preceding week.

  After about two hours of wandering around talking to people, Susannah's right leg began to throb. Sitting down on a bench, she began sketching the station building and some of the people she saw.

  Her activity began to draw interested spectators.

  "Hey, that's really good," said one.

  "Looks just like the depot," said another.

  "Can you draw a picture of me?" asked a third.

  "I suppose so, but...." Susannah answered uncertainly.

  "Hey, I ain't askin' no favors, Missy. What'cha charge?"

  "Um--a dollar?" she responded.

  The man reached into his pocket and flipped her a silver coin. Susannah caught it and stared at it like an alien thing. Then she smiled. "Thanks, Mister. Why don't you just sit here while I get out a fresh sheet of paper and sharpen my pencil."

  Susannah barely noticed when the pain in her leg went away. Three hours later, as dusk began to descend, she actually hailed a hack for a ride back to the boarding house. As fast as her legs could carry her, she went up the stairs and knocked on Adele's door.

  She ran to Adele's bed, crying, "Look, Sissy," and pulled from her pocket eight silver dollars and some change and showered them down on the bed.

  "Where did you get that money?" Adele asked anxiously.

  "People asked me to draw their pictures--and then paid me for them. I told them a dollar each, and they didn't even flinch...Maybe I didn't ask enough...I don't know, but, Sissy, it was so much fun. I feel like a real artist. If I can keep this up, we won't have to worry about paying the rent while we look for Brian."

  Adele raised her hand, "Susannah, I doubt it will be as steady as all that, but it certainly helps, since I don't know what kind of work I will be able to find." She grinned, "My little sister a professional artist. Well, they always did say the West was a land where dreams come true...But if you're going to be a professional, better do things right. You better get yourself one of those artist stands--an easel--and make yourself a sign. And get a couple of chairs for you and your subjects to sit in...Don't worry, we have enough left of the traveling money Mr. Duneagan loaned to us for you to get those things. If it works out, you might just make enough back to pay for everything."

  "And," Susannah added, "I could pin a sketch of Brian to the easel with a sign which says, `Have you seen this man?' Maybe a passerby will recognize him."

  "Um-hmm. I asked Mrs. O'Bannion to hold a plate of supper for you. She said just for today."

  "Okay, Sissy, but I'm really too excited to eat." Susannah kissed her sister and sleeping niece and darted downstairs to get some supper.

  The next morning, Adele rose early, bathed, knotted her long braid into a chignon at the nape of her neck, put on her second best dress--not wanting to wear her wedding dress again until she found Brian--slipped on her cloak, left Beatrice downstairs with Mrs. O'Bannion, and armed with a copy of the Chronicle, began to look for work.

  By the end of the dismal day, she had found nothing. No experience, no references, man wanted, not a suitable job for a white woman, etc., etc.

  Trudging back toward the boarding house, she heard a commotion from a nearby shop. Curious, she walked over to the shop, marked Donelli--Tailors, where two men, one in business clothes and the other in his shirt sleeves with a tape measure around his neck, were embroiled in an argument.

  "You're drunk again," yelled the Suit.

  "You'd have to be to work here," responded Shirt Sleeves. "You're a fucking slave driver."

  "I've given you too many chances. This is it! You're fired," said the man in the suit.

  "Good! Saves me the trouble of quitting!" Shirt Sleeves whipped off his tape measure and threw it in Suit's face. He charged back behind the curtain in the rear of the shop and emerged a few moments later with his jacket over his arm, shoving his hat on his head as he strode out, nearly knocking Adele over as he rushed by her.

  Suit made a fist that he crashed on a counter top. "Madonna, what the hell am I going to do now?"

  Tentatively, Adele walked into the shop.

  Immediately, Suit pulled on a facade of calm professionalism and extended the hand that had seconds earlier punched the counter. "May I help you, Signora?"

  "I'm sorry. I couldn't help overhearing. Who was that man?"

  Suit grumbled, "That was my tailor and fitter. He was a no good drunk, but he could truly make a suit. Well, that's water under the bridge."

  "Then you're...."

  "Antonio Donelli, at your service," he responded with a slight bow.

  Adele responded, "Maybe we can be of service to each other. It appears you need a new tailor. And I need a job."

  Donelli looked at tall, beautiful woman. "You're a tailor?"

  "Well, I'm a quilter, but I've been making clothes for my father and then my husband for more than ten years. I've also made my own and my sister's clothes for even longer than that."

  "Including that thing you've got on? Come here?" he gestured.

  Adele walked over. Donelli told her to remove her cloak. He quickly examined the carefully-made cloak and gestured for Adele to turn around. His practiced eye, for he himself was a tailor, noticed the even stitches, the carefully made buttonholes, the excellent fit on the slender body.

  "Well, you sew well," he conceded. "Have you got any of your husband's clothes you could show me, Mrs. uh...."

  "Strange. Adele Strange."

  "Mrs. Strange, how soon can you be back here with an example of something you've tailored?"

  "I think the boarding house I live at is about three blocks away. Can you give me half an hour?"

  "If your tailoring is as good as your dressmaking, I'll not only give you a half hour, I'll give you a job. Go now."

  Adele headed toward the door.

  "Mrs. Strange..
.."

  She turned, "Yes, Mr. Donelli...."

  "Can you make shirts, too?"

  Adele grinned broadly, "Shirts? When it comes to clothes, they're my specialty!"

  A half-hour later a winded Adele returned with a parcel clutched to her. In front of Donelli, she opened the parcel. In it were one muslin and three blue cambric work shirts and a brand-new sacque suit on which the buttons and trouser hems had not been finished.

  Donelli held up the garments in turn. The same careful workmanship was evident as on her dress. The materials were inferior, but the skill was evident. He put the suit jacket on a mannequin and examined it thoroughly. He had not seen such quality in many years.

  "Your husband is a large man," he commented.

  "Yes, sir. I was making that as a Christmas surprise for him. It's almost finished. It's the first time since our marriage that we were able to afford fresh yard goods instead of making things over for him from my father's clothes." Her voice caught. "I only hope he has a chance to wear it."

  "Where are you from?"

  "Wyoming Territory. We own a farm back there."

  "Not much money, hmmm?"

  "No, sir. Do I have the job, Mr. Donelli?"

  "Absolutely." He tossed a bolt of finely woven cashmere suiting to her. Instinctively she brushed the soft fabric against her cheek.

  "It's beautiful. The softest fabric I've ever felt."

  "I can't wait to see what you can produce if you have quality yardage to work with. Ten dollars a week, starting tomorrow." Donelli paused, wondering how to put the next statement. He walked over to the counter and wrote something down on a piece of paper. "Mrs. Strange, before you come in, here's the address of a shop which sells women's ready to wear. Get yourself some modest, white or ecru shirtwaists and some dark-colored solid or plaid skirts. As nicely as you sew, those calicoes are far too out of date and unsophisticated for San Francisco. We cater to an upper class clientele who expect the best. Some of the most affluent men in San Francisco have their suits made here. Appearances count in this town, or I would not be able to stay in business." He handed her some money. "Here's an advance on your salary to buy the clothes. See you tomorrow."