In all that time, Brigham very wisely kept his distance.
When they arrived in Seattle, however, he immediately took charge again. Aunt Persephone, Charlotte, Millie, and Lydia were all loaded into a muddy carriage, long past its prime, with the bags to be sent along later. Brigham sent the women trundling off over the rutted, stump-strewn streets, toward the Imperial Hotel, and Lydia was relieved that he didn't accompany them.
Mostly.
“Where do you suppose he's going?” she mused aloud, the words escaping her before she could weigh and measure them properly.
Aunt Persephone's smile was a knowing one, but then, it didn't take a legendary brain to recognize Lydia's attraction to Brigham. As hard as she tried to fight that attraction, and to hide it, her feelings would be plainly visible to all but the most obtuse observers.
“Brigham has business associates here in Seattle,” the older woman said. “Bankers and the like.”
Charlotte sighed dreamily. “He probably meets a mystery woman, one with long, flowing hair and a white dress.”
Millie's sigh revealed an entirely different opinion. “Stuff and nonsense,” she said, folding her arms and thumping her heels against the front of the wooden seat she shared with her sister. “He meets a woman, all right, but there's no mystery about it. She's a soiled dove and she kisses him for money.”
Aunt Persephone looked away, perhaps to hide a smile; Lydia couldn't be sure. She was too stunned by the worldly astuteness of Millie's remark, and too afraid it was true, to follow up anyone else's reaction.
Her voice shook a little when she spoke. “Honestly, Millicent, sometimes I think you're a forty-year-old midget just posing as a child. Where on earth did you get such an outrageous idea?”
“I know about these things all right,” Millie said, and the obstinance in her voice and bearing reminded Lydia sorely of Brigham. She turned her indomitable gray gaze to her flushed governess. “Papa kissed you on the boat,” she observed. “Will he give you money?”
Charlotte giggled, and Lydia's blush deepened, burning like a fever in her face and neck. She could even feel it beneath the prim calico bodice of the dress she'd selected for traveling.
“Certainly not,” she said huffily.
Persephone laughed. “I almost hate to go away,” she said, to no one in particular. “I'm probably about to miss the greatest spectacle of our century.”
Lydia definitely did not intend to be a part of any spectacle, great or otherwise. “I can't think what you mean,” she said to the older woman, in a polite but pointed tone.
“Think harder, then,” Persephone answered, without even a moment's hesitation.
Lydia said nothing else, and met no one's eyes, until the carriage stopped in front of the Imperial Hotel. Peter and Eustacia Wallace, friends of the Quade family, were waiting to collect Charlotte and Millie and take them home to spend the afternoon and evening with their daughter, Bertha.
Lydia and Persephone checked into their separate rooms, and Lydia poured the fresh water she found there into a pretty basin and refreshed herself by washing her face and hands. Then she got out her brush, took her hair down, groomed it until it crackled, plaited it neatly, and pinned it up again.
All the time, she was thinking of the way Brigham had kissed her on the deck of the mail boat, and how his tongue had done fiery battle with hers. When she imagined him doing that with another woman, for money or for free, an unreasoning jealousy made her blood simmer. She clamped down her jaw and forcibly changed the direction of her musing.
Her objective for what remained of the afternoon was to locate Polly, and she intended to follow through.
Having no idea where to start, Lydia drew herself up and left the hotel nonetheless, standing on the board sidewalk out front and gazing first in one direction, then the other.
Seattle, for all its bustle, was not a large place. Lydia soon discovered that the timberline came right down to Third Street, and the woods beyond had probably changed changed very little in centuries. There was a church in the center of the community, the interior coolness inviting, offering solace.
Lydia sat for a while on a bench at the back of the plain sanctuary, her hands folded, thinking. There was a slate board next to the altar, and neat chalk figures and letters proclaimed: 22 regular parishioners. 5 visitors. $1.78 collected. This information was followed by a hymn number and the chapter and verse of several Bible quotations.
Polly would not have come to this place, Lydia decided. Her guilt over her past and the way she'd deceived Devon wouldn't have permitted the redemption and peace she might have found here.
Lydia frowned, shifting on the hard and splintery seat. On the other hand, Polly might have been drawn through the doorway by those very needs, or thrust inside by her own self-condemnation.
“May I help you?”
Lydia started, turned to find a well-fed woman with a kindly smile and a pox-scarred face standing in the aisle. “My name is Lydia McQuire,” she said, after a moment of silent faltering, rising from the pew to offer a hand in greeting. “I'm looking for my friend, Polly…” She paused, not knowing her friend's real surname, and used the only one she had. “Polly Quade. Do you know her?”
The woman shook her head, her gray hair, drawn back in a severely plain style, catching stray bits of sunlight from the doorway and the narrow, dusty windows. “I'm sorry, I don't.” If she recognized the name Quade, which she probably did, she made no mention of it. “Is your friend traveling somewhere? San Francisco, perhaps, or the Orient?”
Lydia sighed. “I wish I knew.”
“Is she alone?”
Lydia felt sad, remembering Polly's grief, and the
bleak expression in Devon's eyes when she'd last seen him. “Yes, I think so. She would probably try to find an inexpensive place to stay, and work, too, if she could get it.”
The other woman looked mildly inspired. “She could be cooking in the woods for one of the timber companies, or cleaning rooms at the Imperial Hotel. Or maybe she's gotten herself married, though it wasn't in this church, I can tell you that. Any time a single woman comes to Seattle, even if she's ugly and mean, or both, the men line up to propose holy matrimony.”
Lydia felt uneasy. Ever since she'd left the hotel in search of Polly, she'd felt speculative gazes following her, and she'd heard a few whistles and hopeful catcalls, too. “The Imperial would probably be too expensive. Is there a rooming house?”
“One, but no Christian woman would stay there. It's behind the States Rights Saloon, and I've heard tell the mattress tickings are crawling with vermin.”
With a shudder, Lydia ruled out the States Rights Saloon. She had absolutely no doubt that Polly had at least some money to spend, and although she didn't know Devon's bogus bride very well, she was certain her friend's habits were too fastidious for such a place. Lydia herself would have slept in a hayloft before taking a room in a questionable establishment, and she could only believe that Polly would do the same.
She thanked the lady who had tried so hard to be helpful and left the church. The last fierceness of the afternoon sun uplifted her a little, and she walked with a determined bounce in her step, even though she had no real idea where to go.
Lydia called at the desk of the Imperial Hotel, but they knew of no Polly Quade either registered as a guest or working as a housekeeper or cook.
Women are rare in Seattle, Lydia thought impatiently. Someone like Polly would not go unnoticed.
She crossed the street to the States Rights Saloon and stood hesitantly on the sidewalk, remembering her brief stint as a piano player in just that sort of enterprise, back in San Francisco. She thought of Jim, the kindly bartender who had been her only friend in that city, and how he'd known everyone for miles around, either personally or by reputation. Saloon keepers heard every whisper of gossip, every secret.
Lydia peered over the swinging doors. The place was empty, except for the burly redheaded man behind the bar, polishing glas
ses with his dingy apron, and a harmless-looking reveler who sat with his head on a table.
“Excuse me,” Lydia called shakily. She hadn't liked entering saloons in San Francisco, and she wasn't eager to do it now. “Mr. Saloon Keeper?”
The man behind the bar looked up. His Irish-blue eyes widened, then narrowed. “You wanting a place to stay?” he asked hopefully.
Lydia glanced up and down the sidewalk. Men and the few steely-faced women the community boasted were staring at her, scandalized. “No,” she said nervously. “Couldn't you come out here, just for a moment?”
“I've got work to do, lady. If you want to talk with Brendan O'Shaunessy without shouting so the whole town can hear, you'll just have to step over the threshold.”
Lydia drew a deep breath, let it out in a huff, pushed the doors open and went in. She gave the drunk, who had passed out at his table with his fingers still curled around an empty bottle of rye whiskey, a wide berth as she approached the crude bar. Unlike the beautifully carved teak creations in the establishments where she'd played bawdy tunes she hoped would never flow from her fingers to the keys again, this bar was constructed of old barrels with boards on top.
“I'm looking for a woman named Polly Quade,” she said.
Brendan O'Shaunessy put down the glass he'd been polishing—it still looked filthy to Lydia—and asked in a stage whisper, “That would be Devon Quade's runaway bride?”
Lydia was not surprised that word had traveled so fast; news got around in these pioneer communities, where there was little to do besides work and ponder the doings of others. “Yes,” she muttered, and saying the word was like pulling a bandage from a new wound.
“She's cooking for one of the mill crews,” Mr. O‘Shaunessy said. He ran his too-bright eyes over Lydia with dispatch. “You looking for work yourself, miss? Or a husband, maybe?”
Before answering, Lydia took a judicious step backward. The floor was covered with sawdust, slowing the motion of her feet, but she didn't look down. That would have been an indication of weakness. “No,” she said. “I have a perfectly good post, and no desire at all for a husband.” She stood as tall as she could. “Thank you for your help,” she finished, and turned to hurry out.
It was a measure of her luck, she thought, that she nearly collided with Brigham Quade in the doorway. He folded his arms and arched an eyebrow, regarding Lydia with an inscrutable expression. “I didn't know you suffered from the unholy thirst,” he said.
All Lydia could think of was how she'd felt, squashed against him that morning, how he'd conquered her with his mouth. Damn the man, he'd stirred things inside her that still hadn't settled. “I don't,” she said, calling on bravado to raise her chin and push back her shoulders. “I'm looking for Polly.”
“You expected her to frequent the States Rights Saloon?” Brigham inquired.
Lydia wasn't about to explain her theory that bartenders knew most everything that went on in a town. “Perhaps,” she allowed, sparing only the merest breath for the word. “Now, if you'll just let me pass.”
Brigham stepped aside and gestured politely, and Lydia swept by him, barely able to keep from lifting her skirts and breaking into a dead run. She had no more than gained the boardwalk, however, when he caught her elbow in one hand and turned her to face him.
Mr. Quade looked damnably handsome even in his cotton duck trousers, scuffed boots, suspenders, and open-throated work shirt, and for one wonderful, wicked, and utterly terrifying moment, Lydia thought he meant to kiss her again. Instead he released her arm and let go a mighty sigh.
“You shouldn't be meddling in this,” he said through his teeth. “Devon and Polly have to work it out themselves.”
Lydia leaned close to him, painfully conscious of the stares of masculine passersby, and stood on the balls of her feet to hiss, “I'm not meddling. Polly is my friend and I want to see how she is.”
Brigham reached into the pocket of his trousers, pulled out a thick packet of currency, and removed a twenty-dollar bill. “Give her this,” he said.
After looking down at the money in surprise for a moment, Lydia lifted her eyes to Brigham's concerned face, not knowing what to think.
Her employer shoved a hand through his unruly ebony hair and looked exasperated. “Get Polly's address when you see her, and tell her I'll have Harrington arrange for regular bank drafts until she remarries.”
Lydia swallowed. She wanted to dislike Brigham Quade—in fact, she was desperate to dislike him—but she could not overlook the man's gruff generosity, or his sense of honor and decency. She nodded, turned and walked away.
Lydia's persistence was soon rewarded. She found Polly in the mess tent next to one of the mills, harriedly pouring coffee for at least two dozen men. She pushed up her sleeves, grabbed the second coffeepot, and began to help serving.
“There's a dance tonight,” someone said. “You want to go reelin’ with me, pretty girl?”
“Will you marry me?” another man asked, his brown, gapped teeth showing in a broad and confident grin. He smelled, his gray hair stuck out all over his head in wild thatches, and he apparently believed the very sight of him would drive Lydia wild with passion.
“Some other time,” she said briskly, filling his cup and moving on to the next man. Polly was standing stock-still, staring at her, and she didn't move until one of the other workers slammed his metal cup down on the plank-board table.
For the next hour, while the men ate their supper of biscuits and roasted meat and peas from some nearby garden, Lydia concentrated on avoiding pinches and pats, and she poured more coffee. When the dining tent was finally empty, except for her and Polly, the latter approached her.
“What are you doing here, Lydia?”
Lydia took the money Brigham had given her from the pocket of her skirt and held it out. “Here,” she said. “Brig—Mr. Quade asked me to give this to you, and to get your address. He'll have his clerk send you regular bank drafts until you get married again.”
Polly looked at the money for a long moment, biting her lower lip, then reluctantly accepted it and tucked it down inside her bodice. “How's Devon?”
Lydia sat down at one of the rough tables and propped her chin in one hand. “I think you already know the answer to that question,” she replied, without rancor.
Tears swelled in Polly's hazel eyes. “Is he courting you?”
“Yes,” Lydia answered. “But I don't think he means it.”
Polly raised the hem of her apron and pressed it to her eyelids. “I miss him so much.”
Lydia patted her friend's hand, already chafed and reddened from hard work. “Why don't you go back to him, then? Just get on the mail boat and head for Quade's Harbor?”
After a sniffle and another pass of the apron hem over her puffy eyes, Polly shook her head. “I couldn't. He'd turn me away, and I wouldn't be able to bear that.”
Just like the woman she'd met earlier, in the church, Lydia was struck with an inspiration. “You could still go back,” she insisted. “Brigham would surely hire you to do the same work you're doing here—I heard him say just the other day that he can't keep a cook in the camps.”
Polly looked horrified. “Lydia, I couldn't live on the mountain with all those dreadful men! They'd be plaguing me to—” A light went on in her eyes, and suddenly, tentatively, she was smiling. “They'd be plaguing me to marry them.”
Lydia nodded, her own lips curved into a delighted grin. “If that doesn't drive Devon Quade straight out of his mind, nothing will!”
“Do you really think it would work?” Polly sounded doubtful now, afraid to hope.
Raising one shoulder in a shrug, Lydia replied, “Who knows? But you might as well cook there as here.”
Polly thought for a moment, then nodded. “I'll use this money for work clothes and passage back to Quade's Harbor on the mail boat,” she said, patting her bodice, “and save the rest in case Devon doesn't come around.”
Lydia embraced the other woman
briefly, then rose from the bench. “I'd best get back to the hotel now,” she said. “Aunt Persephone will be waking up from her nap and wanting company.” As she left the mess tent, escorted by Polly, the strains of a fiddle and the twangy, unidentifiable sound of another instrument met her ears.
“There's a dance tonight,” Polly said, and Lydia recalled the many invitations that had been extended to them both.
Lydia was thoughtful for a moment, listening to the rough, merry music, intrigued by it. She wasn't even sure she'd know how to dance, since she'd never had the chance—except with imaginary partners in her girlhood room, back in Fall River.
“We're staying at the Imperial Hotel,” she said, feeling a strange, eager energy gather in her feet. “You'd best come by in the morning and talk with Brigham before you go back.”
“I will,” Polly promised. “Do you want me to walk to the hotel with you?”
“You would have to come back by yourself,” Lydia reasoned, with a shake of her head. “No, Polly, I'll be fine. And I'll see you tomorrow.”
With that, the two women parted. There was a moon, and light swelling into the street from the doorway of the States Rights Saloon, as well as a plank-board eatery and a place of suspicious enterprise, so Lydia didn't need a lantern.
She tried to ignore the music as she passed the large meetinghouse where the dance was being held, but it pulled at her spirit, like an invisible hand. Lydia was filled with an achy nostalgia for earlier, simpler times, when war was only something mentioned in a history primer and she'd still believed in mystery and magic.
Reaching the Imperial Hotel, Lydia hurried upstairs and knocked at Aunt Persephone's door, which was directly across the hall from her own.
Persephone was enjoying a carry-up dinner at a table next to the window. “Merciful heavens, Lydia, I thought you'd been carried off by white slavers or something. Where in heaven's name have you been?”
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