by Ann Moore
“You’ve been ever so good to us, Doctor,” Grace said earnestly. “You must pay us a visit, once we’re settled in. The children will be happy for it, especially our Jack, who’s so fond of your pocket watch. And bring your sister, as well, if she’s able. She’ll be most welcome.”
“Thank you.” Wakefield nodded, then shook his head. “I mean … I wanted—” He stopped, frowning. “Are you saying that you have succeeded in engaging accommodation? I guess I hadn’t realized.”
“I haven’t,” Grace clarified. “But I will. Tomorrow, Jack and I will find a place. And, once Mary Kate is home, I’ll get work, as well.”
“What about the children?” He looked down at Jack’s small form sprawled on the floor like a limp puppy. “What will you do with them?”
Grace didn’t want to admit that she had no idea. “We’ll manage,” she said firmly. “If there’s piecework to be had, I can take in sewing. Then I’ll be at home with them. If not, I’ll go out to cook. I was a cook in Kansas, you know, and before that in New York, so I’ve plenty of experience. ’Tis only ’til Captain Reinders returns.”
“I see.” Wakefield hesitated. “May I ask a personal question, Missus Donnelly?”
Grace felt her face grow warm. “Of course.”
“Are you and the captain … I mean—do you have an … understanding of some kind?”
“Aye. He’s been wanting me to come out for some time now.”
Wakefield nodded. “As you may have noticed, this is a town full of men. And, forgive me for saying so, while every man wants a woman, they don’t all necessarily want a wife.”
“Captain Reinders is the most honorable man I know. He’s my dearest friend, and though I’d not planned on making a home in San Francisco just yet, now we’re here, I’ve no doubt he’ll be happy to see us.”
“Missus Donnelly, I want you to listen to me for a moment.” Wakefield leaned forward. “Sister Joseph is my right-hand man around here, and she has come up with a solution, as she so frequently does, that may very well benefit us all.”
“I’m not sure I understand you, Doctor.”
“You need secure, affordable lodging, and work that allows you to be near your children. And I”—he paused—“I am in dire need of a good cook. Not just any good cook—I’ve had dozens of those, mostly men, I’ll grant you—but a cook of exceptional … resilience.”
“Are you so very hard to please, then?”
“Not I,” Wakefield corrected. “If the food is warm and even remotely palatable, I am most certainly grateful. No.” He hesitated. “To be honest, it is my housekeeper, Missus Hopkins, who seems to be the reason I cannot keep a cook. She is a rather demanding woman, and she wields a very sharp tongue.”
“Forgive me for asking, Doctor, but why not just replace her instead of going to all this trouble?”
Wakefield nodded. “You’re quite right, of course, but Abigail is attached to Hopkins and won’t hear of dismissal, and, I must admit, Hopkins is very protective of my sister. Abigail’s ailment is a nervous condition, you see. Hopkins administers her medication and is better able to manage her than ever I could, though she’s a grim woman; there’s no denying that. I did try to let her go once, but Abby …” He shook his head. “The deterioration was so dramatic, I vowed never to make that mistake again.”
“So you need someone who’ll get along with your housekeeper,” Grace concluded. “What makes you think I’ll fare any better than the others?”
“Sister Joseph has vouched for you most highly. She says you are a person not easily intimidated, especially by someone like Hopkins. And, truly, if you cook half as well as you argue a point, Missus Donnelly, then I’ve no doubt Abigail’s constitution can be built up again despite the difficulties.” Wakefield leaned forward, his eyes hopeful as he pressed his case. “The cook’s living quarters are behind the kitchen, connected by a narrow hall. There is a private entrance and a fireplace—plenty of room for you and the children—and there’s a very big yard and a stable, and then a garden, of course. We’re at the top of the hill, with a pond, a small wood, and grounds that run down the back. The children could have the run of all that. Miss Mary Kate will need plenty of fresh air and exercise in order to recuperate fully. And, of course”—he paused in order to lend full weight to this final and, he hoped, most persuasive piece—“I’ll be on hand should either of your children ever need a doctor again.”
Grace looked down at Mary Kate and then at Jack; this last was worth all the others put together, and yet, was it fair to take the position knowing her future was undecided?
“Once Captain Reinders returns,” Wakefield continued, guessing her concern, “you are certainly under no obligation to remain in my employ. However, establishing some measure of independence may relieve the pressure of arriving at too hasty a resolve, if I may say so without giving offense.”
“No,” Grace said slowly. “No, you’re right.”
She did not want Peter to think she’d come to marry out of desperation, nor did she wish him to feel responsible even if his feelings toward her had changed. And he would; she knew he would—being the kind of man he was, honorable and true, he would insist on marrying her right away, before either one had a decent chance at sorting out the truth of the situation. Grace could not bear the thought of tying him to something he might secretly and stoically regret for the rest of his life.
“If I come, Doctor, will you be expecting my children to work, as well?”
“Absolutely not,” he insisted. “Hopkins oversees the inside work, which her daughter, Enid, does. We have an outdoor man for the grounds and stable. Your duties are only those of the kitchen, and how much help your children give is up to you. I intend to pay a very generous wage, Missus Donnelly. Kindly consider my offer as an alternative to damp waterfront lodgings and the drudgery of sewing by candlelight.”
Grace wanted to take offense to that but knew he was probably right.
“Your sister,” she said, stalling for time. “Her condition is not so bad as to frighten the children?”
“You won’t have much contact with Abigail; she used to go out on occasion but is now a total invalid. Rather, it will be Hopkins who might give the children a fright. Enid is better—though she, too, sports a grim countenance.”
“You’re offering me work in a house full of grim and hysterical women?” Grace asked, shaking her head. “What’s the outdoor man like?”
“Grim.” Wakefield laughed. “Did I mention the generous wage, Missus Donnelly? With a bonus at Christmastime? Believe me, I know the going rate in this town for a woman who can cook, and I’m well prepared to double that amount.”
Grace rapidly weighed her options, which were sadly under scale; looking again at her daughter’s pale face and then her son’s sleeping form, she made up her mind.
“All right, then, Doctor, you’ve struck a bargain. You house us and pay me that generous wage, and you’ll think it’s your very own mother out in the kitchen.”
“My mother didn’t know a pot from a pan, Missus Donnelly. She had all the sla—” He stopped. “Servants she could ever want. But my grandmother—now, there was a woman always slipping away to the kitchen. She used to make a hot dish of potatoes and cabbage and onions that I can almost taste to this day.”
“Colcannon,” Grace said at once, pleased. “Not so grand, but we Irish love it. I’ll make it up for you the day I start.”
“Wonderful.” Wakefield stood and rubbed his hands together briskly. “How about Monday morning? I’ll have your quarters readied, and you and the boy can bring your things up by wagon—I’ll send my man. Mary Kate can follow when she’s ready.”
“Monday ’tis, then.” Grace put out her hand. “Thank you, Doctor. Thank you very much.”
“Don’t change your mind on me now we’ve sealed the bargain.” Wakefield clasped her hand firmly, then let go. “I’ll be dreaming of poached eggs and crisped bacon, pies that don’t sink like a stone, savory stews, flu
ffy biscuits, gravy …” His eyes widened in alarm. “You do know how to make gravy, don’t you, Missus Donnelly?”
“Oh, aye, Doctor, set your mind at ease.” Grace laughed. “Go on home to your dreams, now, and we’ll see you in two days. And, Doctor—do you have a milk cow at your place?”
“Well, no, actually, we don’t. But I can certainly acquire one,” he offered instantly. “You want it for the children, I suppose. For fresh milk?”
“Aye. We had our own in Kansas,” Grace told him. “I’ve seen the price of things in the city, and we’d make up the cost of the cow in cheese and butter and cream alone.”
“Music to my ears, Missus Donnelly. A milk cow it is.”
The doctor nodded happily, then strode across the ward and through the double doors, whistling softly. As soon as he’d gone, Sister Joseph looked up from the work she’d been pretending to do, then bustled down the aisle toward Grace, her nursing habit floating out behind.
“Well, my dear?” the nun asked breathlessly upon arrival. “What’s?”
“I’m offered a place as cook,” Grace reported dutifully. “With rooms off the kitchen for myself and the children. I know you put in the good word, Sister, and I can’t thank you enough. The pay alone is more than I’d ever dreamed of.”
Sister Joseph nodded. “Oh, aye, women’s skills still fetch a dear price in this town when men pay five dollars for a pan of fresh biscuits. Not to mention, he’s paying you to put up with old Hopkins.”
Grace bit her lip. “What’s that all about, then—the hysterical sister and grim servants?”
The nun laughed. “He told you himself, did he? Well, well, well, good for him. He’s not been above painting a prettier picture in order to get himself a decent meal.”
“That bad, is it?”
“I don’t really know,” Sister Joseph admitted. “I’ve only ever met Hopkins and her daughter the odd time out. They’re some sort of fanaticals, you know,” she confided in a low voice. “The girl showed a bit of spark, but she’s well under her mother’s thumb, I’m guessing. I know a bit more about Mister Litton, as he was one of the doctor’s first patients. Patched up in a field hospital during the war, but ’twas badly done. Doctor Wakefield set him to rights, though it took a while. Mister Litton was very grateful at the time.”
“Then why so grim?”
The ward around them was quiet and dim, warm from the coal stove at the end of the room. Sister Joseph sat down and took a deep breath.
“Well, now,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “He was a criminal of sorts in the city of New York until the guards caught up with him and gave him a choice: go to prison or go to war. Lot of them come out that way, you know, though mostly toward the end of the fight. Some never saw a hint of battle, though it don’t stop them regaling you with their heroics for the price of a drink.” Her smile faded. “You can tell the ones that really fought,” she said soberly. “George Litton was one of those. After the war, he wandered out this way but wasn’t well. He’d been shot, you know, and the pieces still in him. The doctor took them out and he had less pain. Only instead of finding work, he joined his old B’hoys from the gangs in New York. They ran riot through this town the better part of a year, and no one could do a thing about it. Called themselves the San Francisco Society of Regulators, devoted to protecting us all from foreigners, don’t you know, though most of them not more than a generation off the boat themselves. Their slogan was ‘Papists, Greasers, Niggers, and John Chinaman—Out,’ which was so very poetic, don’t you think?” She shook her head in disgust. “Burned Little Chile practically to the ground one night, ran those poor people out of their homes. ’Twas Sam Brannan took a public stand against them. He and his vigilantes finally put the whole lot down. Hung them or drove them out of town.”
“But not Mister Litton?”
“I’m coming to that,” Sister Joseph scolded good-naturedly. “You know how I warm to a good story. Anyway, Doctor Wakefield himself got caught up in the riot that night—he was trying to stop it, you see—knocked unconscious, he was. Would’ve been the end of him, what with the fires and all, had not Mister Litton carried him out of there. Later, when the Regulators were being hunted down, the doctor took him in and give him work. Gave Brannan his word that Mister Litton would stay out of trouble and, by all accounts, he has. Bit of a drinker, I hear.” She shrugged. “But who isn’t, in this town? Especially the soldiers.”
Grace recalled the faces of young men she’d known who’d died fighting—mostly Irish, they were, but also men like Henry Adams, an Englishman. And her friend. War and slavery—what a night of conversation she was having.
“What about Miss Wakefield?” Grace asked. “Was she always unwell?”
“I’m often here late at night, you know,” Sister Joseph said quietly. “People confess things in the midnight hour, even doctors … Especially to nuns,” she added wryly. “So I know this much to be true—she was thrown over in her engagement to an older man, a judge no less, and the shock of it sent her into decline.” She paused and looked around. “What I don’t know to be true, but what others say—and you know I’ve no mind for gossip, but sometimes you hear things you’d rather not—is that she and a young lover were publicly denounced by the judge, or even that she’d married the judge but was then cast out in a most humiliating manner. Perhaps she had a bastard child, stillborn perhaps, or given away to maiden aunts in the country.” Her eyes opened wide at the thought of such scandal. “But I can only vouch for what the doctor himself says, which is that her own family wanted her out of good society and would have nothing more to do with her. ’Tis terrible wicked hearsay.” She shook her head. “And not worth the repeating. I only tell you now you’re going up the hill to live.”
“Thank you,” Grace said weakly.
“’Tis my understanding they were hard set on putting her away,” Sister Joseph continued. “But the doctor come home from university and convinced them to let him bring her out here. He’d been wanting to come for some time, he told me, but they’d been against it though he was the third son and no reason to stay on the family land. They agreed and he receives an annuity, though to his credit, he keeps Miss Abigail in comfort and spends the rest building hospitals and clinics and the like.”
Grace stared, incredulous.
“People do talk.” Sister Joseph tipped her head discreetly toward a nurse at the end of the ward. “Though Lord knows I stay well clear of it.”
“Aye,” Grace agreed dryly. “I can see I’m to get no information out of you.”
“Ah, go on with you.” Sister Joseph swatted the young woman’s knee playfully. “You probably think I’m daft sending you up into all that, but really it’s all past and there’s nothing for it. Miss Abigail stays to her rooms, Mister Litton stays to the stable, I’ve no doubt you can handle Hopkins and the girl, and Doctor Wakefield is a fine man, deserving of a little creature comfort for all the good he does.” She paused. “And, of course, it doesn’t bear thinking—you living on your own in this town; crowded, ’tis, and full of vice. I know plenty of folk struggling hard despite it being the City of Gold, and I’ll sleep better at night knowing you and the wee ones are well out of it.”
Grace leaned forward and embraced her new friend, holding the woman tightly and kissing her soft wrinkled cheek before letting her go.
“I’ll not forget your kindness to us.”
“Well, and aren’t we both County Cork girls? No sense coming all this way only to scrape and suffer all over again. I’m not so long out of the place I don’t know what it was you left behind. I survived it, as well,” Sister Joseph added soberly. “There aren’t many of us as did.”
A lump rose in Grace’s throat and she could only nod, not trusting herself to speak. The nun understood and took the young woman’s hand, patting it reassuringly.
“You get yourself settled in up there, agra, and welcome to it, grim folk and all. But bring me a wee dish of that colcannon you promised the doctor,
will you, now? Oh, I can almost taste it.” Sister Joseph cast her eyes toward Heaven with the thought of such pleasure.
“And how would you know about that?” Grace laughed. “I’ve only just told him!”
“For overseeing the place, I’m second only to God, though I’ll deny I ever said such a blasphemous thing.” Her eyes twinkled. “Off to bed with you, now, and remember your prayers, for ’tis no city kind to widows and babies, and you’ve landed on your feet, you have.”
Grace looked down at Mary Kate and brushed the hair off the girl’s forehead. “Aye,” she whispered. “Well I know it.”
After drawing the blankets more securely around her children, Grace settled herself on the floor next to Jack, her back against the trunk that held their belongings. She pulled her cloak up over her legs, then rested her head on a folded shawl and closed her eyes.
She must have slept then because, upon awakening, she still clung to the fragments of a dream: She was down on the beach, the wind in her hair, with Jack riding on one hip and Mary Kate walking out front; a ship appeared and drew closer, closer, until a man dove overboard, cutting cleanly into the water. He swam steadily, this man, with sure strokes, until at last he reached the shallow water, whereupon he stood and waded toward shore, seawater streaming from his hair. “Grace!” he called. “Gracelin!” He waved one arm high in the air, and she could have wept because there he was, striding toward her, larger than life itself, and so real she could hear the echo of his voice. She closed her eyes and willed the dream to continue, moved the two people closer together, placed them in the arms of each other, listened to them ask for forgiveness—the one for having died, the other for … for what? She opened her eyes. For having married the wrong man in the very beginning—but it had given her Mary Kathleen; for having not gone to Morgan in prison—but she had been heavy with his child; for having left that child behind in Ireland—but the boy was with her now, and he’d been saved from blindness. And yet, her heart cried out to be forgiven—for what, for what?
