Through Rushing Water

by Catherine Richmond

  “Petersburg, Virginia?” Harrison asked. Their mother was from the Old Dominion.

  “Russia.”

  Tilly fluttered. “We had a Russian visitor a few years ago. You remember.”

  “Oh yeah. Went buffalo hunting with Custer,” Harrison said.

  Will nodded. “Grand Duke Alexei. Sophia knows him. Her father taught him to ride.” He looked down at his feet. “She doesn’t want a carpenter. She wants somebody important. A congressman, a diplomat, a—” He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, Omaha is getting bigger, improving,” Harrison said.

  Will followed Harrison’s frown down the muddy track known as Jackson Street. Mrs. Porter’s cow had pulled up her picket line and stretched her neck over the fence to chew on Mrs. Crowell’s lilac bush. The wind banged the door of the Hendersons’ outhouse. Sidewalks hadn’t made it out this far; pedestrians walked on clumps of prairie grass growing beside the street.

  Improving, maybe. But it was a long way from giving New York any competition, and no chance it would ever be Paris.

  Tilly squeezed his hand. “Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll climb to the top of the high school tower and yell, ‘Omaha, behave yourself! We’ve got a visitor!’”

  “Appreciate it.” Will grinned and waved good-bye. The rig lurched back up the hill.

  Will’s gate opened without a squeak. He closed it behind him, then let Goldie loose. Rather than race around, enjoying her freedom, she stayed by his heel.

  “Glad to see someone wants my company.” He gave her a pat, then headed up the brick walk. “I finished this house in ’73, before the panic. It’s like a peddler’s sample case. Little bit of this and that. Harrison keeps it up to show customers what we can do.”

  The trim had been painted recently, deepened from the original pastels to royal blue and gold, a nice contrast with the sky-blue clapboard. The lawn had been cut. The windows shone and flowers bloomed in a pot by the door. Goldie’s toenails clicked on the tile.

  “Double entry doors. Helps keep the weather out. Stained glass transom for natural light.”

  Ah. Furniture polish and floor wax. Will hadn’t smelled those in a good long while. Goldie followed her nose into the parlor.

  “Walnut and oak floorboards,” Will told her. “Dark and light woods make any pattern you want. Don’t miss the crown molding, corner protectors, shutters, bookcases built to fit the house.” Tilly had picked out new wallpaper in gold with dark-blue stripes, bordered with matching arches.

  “Be sure to appreciate the brass hinges.” Will opened the doors to the dining room. Replacement wallpaper, also blue with gold, covered the walls and ceiling. Medallions in the corners and around the light fixture repeated the design. He shook his head. “The crew always threatens to quit after a ceiling job.”

  A vase of white flowers, like daisies with fat petals, stood on the table. “Carrara marble fireplace serves both rooms. Wainscoting, chair rail.”

  Her nose led her to the kitchen. “Ah, yes, a priority for the lady of the house.” It seemed Goldie would be the only female to live here. “The latest setup recommended by Catharine Beecher. Lots of shelves, hooks for utensils, pump and drain so I don’t have to carry water.”

  Big improvement from the agency house. Firewood was neatly laid in the stove. Tomorrow Will would thank Tilly’s housekeeper. Was it still Mrs. O’Reilly?

  Will found a heavy yellow stoneware bowl, filled it with water, and set it on the floor.

  Goldie took a drink, then dashed upstairs.

  “Not pausing to appreciate the walnut-and-oak stairway?” The bed had been made with white sheets. A vase with tall stalks of blue flowers decorated the dresser. He dropped his knapsack on the wide floorboards. “We put pine, painted to look like mahogany, in the family areas. Spent the big bucks on the public rooms.”

  Goldie turned circles on the rag rug beside the bed, then lay down with a satisfied sigh.

  “Welcome home,” he told her. She grinned in response, her tongue lolling out. Now if only it were this easy to bring Sophia . . .

  He had to make himself stop thinking about her. A breeze fluttered the curtain, allowing a glimpse of Brownell Hall on the hill.

  Stop thinking about Sophia? Not a chance.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  The clanging of a bell jerked Sophia into wakefulness.

  The Brulé!

  No, it was morning at Brownell Hall. Sophia rolled out of the feather bed, its carved dark headboard matching the desk and mirrored bureau. She pulled open the heavy drapes. No one would notice her icon against the elaborate red-and-gold fleur-de-lis wallpaper. Brownell might as well be Versailles, as different as it was from the Ponca Agency. The only thing missing was indoor plumbing.

  What would Will think of this building? And what were he and Goldie doing this morning?

  Mrs. Windsor had given Sophia a room on the northwest corner of the third floor. Window screens protected her from the onslaught of mosquitoes. Her view included the building with the turrets, which Harrison had told her was the high school. Since the town had attempted to locate the state’s seat of government here, the area was called “Capitol Hill.” It seemed to mark the end of town.

  Somewhere off to the west Lone Chief raised his arms to greet the dawn.

  On the streets of Omaha, a horse neighed and draymen called to each other in a language she thought might be Czech. Sparrows swirled past the window in search of a tree to call home.

  Down the hall, a door banged and small feet pounded.

  “Gracie, you ninny,” whined a girl. “What did you do with my hairbrush?”

  “You’re the ninny. You gave it to Maggie.”

  Another voice, a little older, warned, “If Mrs. Windsor hears you . . .”

  The voices moved down the hall before Sophia could learn what consequences the matron might apply for name-calling.

  How silly, to be fussing over a hairbrush, when so many were waking up hungry this morning. How could she love students who were so wrapped up in themselves?

  Sophia straightened. She was a professional teacher. Love was not necessary to teach them.

  The rich aroma of bacon and pancakes wafted up the steps. Sophia finished her morning prayers with a plea for the Poncas, that they might eat today.

  She hurried to dress. The clear light of a city morning showed her frayed cuffs. Mysterious stains dotted her skirt. Shopping, she supposed, had become a necessity. And arranging her hair in a more elaborate style. Sophia wove a braid and pinned it to the back of her head, similar to the matron’s.

  “Good morning, Miss Makinoff,” the students chorused as she followed them down the stairs to the dining hall.

  “Miss Makinoff!” A tall woman gasped.

  “Kitty Lyman!” Sophia embraced her former student. “What are you doing here?”

  A sudden silence in the dining hall indicated Sophia had caused a scene. And undoubtedly revealed the young woman’s nickname to the entire school.

  “Teaching natural science.” Miss Lyman grinned and took her arm. “You must be here to finish the term for Mademoiselle Ross. Let me introduce you.”

  Miss Tarbell, music, presided over a table of the youngest students. Miss Jacobsen, English, stood in line for eggs. Miss Franklin, history, mediated a dispute among the twelve-year-olds. Mrs. Doherty, drawing and painting, finished her breakfast. Reverend Meeks, languages, and Reverend Doherty, the rector, who taught mental and moral science, lingered over coffee. Again, no tea? These Americans!

  “Half of the students went home for the weekend,” Kitty told her.

  Sophia’s head spun. How would she remember all these new faces and names?

  “So where have you been?” Kitty asked over breakfast.

  “In the Dakota Territory, teaching at the Ponca Agency.”

  “Oh.” The young woman did not move for a long moment, as if the information did not fit in her head. Then she blinked, leaned forward, and dropped her voice. “Well
then, you haven’t heard about Annabelle Montgomery. She’s enceinte.”

  Sophia corrected Kitty’s pronunciation. For some unknown reason she always spoke French with a Greek accent. “Annabelle will be an excellent mother.”

  “You’re not . . .” Kitty tipped her head. “Upset?”

  “Not at all. I shall write to congratulate her.”

  And to prove it Sophia consumed a hearty breakfast. Truly, her only embarrassment was that anyone might connect her romantically with Montgomery. Having a baby would keep Annabelle home in New York rather than blundering about Washington, a blessing for the capital city.

  Sophia listened to news of the College over breakfast, then Kitty gave her a tour of Brownell Hall, the highlight of which was their thousand-volume library. As at the College, the school ran by bells. After classes a study hour was followed by an hour of physical activity, such as tennis, baseball, or dancing. At six tea was served, which Sophia knew meant supper, not the hot beverage made from plant leaves. Recreation, study, and religious exercises filled the evening until lights out at nine.

  After the tour, Sophia returned to her room to unpack, then hurried downstairs in time to meet Tilly. They walked two blocks north and caught the Omaha Horse Railway, a yellow carriage pulled on tracks, down to the business district on Farnam Street.

  “Let’s start with ready-made. If we can’t find the right ensemble for you, we have several wonderful dressmakers in town.”

  Tilly’s boots rapped a rhythm on the wooden sidewalks as she towed Sophia past brick buildings two and three stories tall. The north side of the street teemed with workmen removing rubble.

  “We had a conflagration last month. Thanks to the skill of our fire department and the divine providence of a torrential downpour, the city was saved.”

  “Perhaps Will might be working here?”

  “Heavens, no. Didn’t he tell you? Harrison has several jobs already lined up for him.” Tilly gave her a puzzled look, then changed the subject. “This spring’s polonaises are longer, showing merely a line of the underskirt.”

  Sophia would prefer to discuss Will but could not think how to bring the conversation back to him without raising unwarranted speculation. “What fabric is preferred?” She feigned interest in the answer.

  “They’re made of thin lawn or organdy over black silk or velvet.”

  “Black for summer?” Already the morning sun heated the May air to a degree uncomfortable for her bombazine dress.

  “Yes, and the new bodices have five seams in back instead of three.”

  Five seams or three, what did it matter? Unless all the out-of-fashion bodices might be sent to the Poncas.

  Sophia paused at a window display of children’s shoes, enough to outfit the entire tribe. Should she tell Tilly about the miracle of receiving enough shoes to fit all the students in her school? No. Either she would not believe it or she would not think it sufficient to merit the title of miracle.

  Sophia blinked back tears. Tilly patted her hand. “I cannot imagine . . .”

  No, she could not. No one could. No one would believe what the Poncas had suffered. Sophia blotted her eyes. “Please forgive me.”

  “You . . . don’t like to shop?” Tilly asked with incredulity.

  “I have not thought much about clothes this past year.”

  Not true. Sophia had spent a lot of time worrying about clothing, although not for herself.

  She swallowed and mustered a smile at the well-dressed woman in front of her. “This morning, though, as I was introduced to the other teachers, my wardrobe deficiencies became readily apparent. Tilly, I would be ever so grateful if you would help rectify my situation.”

  Tilly’s eyes brightened and her cheeks pinked. She towed Sophia into Welf and McDonald’s and sorted through prêt-à-porter dresses with a frightful amount of shirring, ruching, and pleating. She held up a visiting costume of strawberry satin with black velvet bands. “Will’s right about sackcloth and ashes. After the somber shades you’ve been wearing, perhaps something bright? What colors do you wear best?”

  What color did Will like best?

  The choices were overwhelming. The most restrained choice was a polonaise in golden brown with a dark-brown underskirt, complete with silk cords, tassels, and fringe. Second best was a violet basque and overskirt with a black walking skirt with draping, pleats, and enormous buttons. Both had a pocket for her pistol.

  The dressmaker measured her for suits in light blue, spring green, and medium green.

  As if her choices were not equipped with sufficient frills, Will’s sister-in-law picked out an assortment of jabots as ruffled as those worn in the Elizabethan era, cut steel ornaments in various shapes, and kid gloves in greenish-blue and deep pink with embroidered flowers. New handkerchiefs, stockings, and petticoats joined the pile.

  If only she could have outfitted her students in such splendor.

  The store’s dressmaker agreed to make the necessary alterations to the two ensembles and send them to school that afternoon. The rest would be sent during the week.

  “You’re so fortunate you’re slender,” Tilly said as they left the store. “The cuirass bodice is perfect for you.”

  Will’s comment about the lack of food had stopped conversation, so Sophia limited herself to a simple, “Thank you.”

  “Tilly!” A young woman hailed her outside the music store, moving fast enough to launch the bird on her hat into flight. “Did you hear? They were digging for the new school on Eleventh and Dodge and found two Indian skeletons!”

  Tilly attempted to make introductions.

  “With relics and scalp rings!” The woman’s handkerchief fluttered.

  “Who were they?” Sophia asked.

  “Who?” The florid woman stepped back. “They were Indians.”

  “Louisa, you’ll have to excuse us.” Tilly linked arms with Sophia and hurried down the street. “And you will have to excuse us. Not everyone will understand your work with the Indians.”

  Not understanding, and apparently not interested in understanding.

  Sophia patted her hand. “I do not want to cause problems for you. Your husband has a business here.”

  “Bosh,” Tilly said. “When Louisa wants her house built, she won’t care if we’re holding powwows and calling ourselves squaws.”

  Before Sophia could unscramble Tilly’s comment, they passed a gun shop. Perhaps she should replenish her supply of bullets? A trio of rough characters emerged, equipped for mining and carrying new Sharps breech-loaders. Tilly tightened her grip, held her breath, and hurried Sophia past. Perhaps another day.

  “Will said you’re quite the letter writer.” Tilly led her into a bookstore. “Do you need more stationery?”

  Newspapers covered the counter of R. & J. Wilbur’s. “Russo-Turkish War” blazed from one headline. Without reading any further Sophia followed Tilly down the aisle. Even if the war ended tomorrow, Russia no longer called to her. Will lived here, in this rough crossroads. All her curiosity, all her interest, focused on him. Did she have a future with him?

  While Tilly cooed over pastel pages with flowers and ribbons, Sophia debated between plain white and ivory. Should she write any more letters about the Poncas? Had her feeble efforts damaged their cause? Will said they had not. She chose ivory.

  “Tilly, my word.” A stern-looking woman entered as the clerk waited on them. “You’re the first person I’ve recognized today. Have you ever seen the like?” She nodded toward a large company of German farmers in the street, stocking their wagons for homesteading. “The Metropolitan hired a horde of Chinese, and the Grand Central has a pack of Africans. Omaha has hardly any Americans anymore!”

  “How wonderful to see our city growing.” Tilly completed her purchase.

  The woman sniffed. “You would say that, all those houses your husband built for those Italians.”

  “So much for good behavior,” Tilly muttered as they left the store, skirting a drunk man who snored i
n a doorway. “Don’t worry. I’ll introduce you to some good people tomorrow at church.”

  “Tilly, please do not fret. Omaha is no worse than anywhere else.”

  A loud thunk echoed from an alley. Four dogs raced out, carrying large bones. A man in an apron yelled, “Away with you!”

  Ah, an opening. “How did Goldie do last night?”

  “I don’t know. She stayed with Will. Look, shoes!” Tilly scrutinized the stock of W. B. Loring, Henry Dohle, and S. P. Morse’s stores, passing over numerous pairs of perfectly acceptable boots, before finding some she would permit Sophia to try on.

  Tilly ushered her into a hat shop, confiding, “Mrs. Atkinson just returned from the east.” Apparently this journey gave the milliner permission to bedeck bonnets with ribbons, bows shaped like the Maltese cross, and rosettes in impossible colors. Tilly’s friend Fannie arrived. The ladies coerced Sophia into selecting two new hats, neither of which had a wide enough brim to be any protection at all from the sun. Sophia consoled herself with the thought that a few snips of her embroidery scissors would bring these confections back to a tasteful amount of adornment.

  Back on the sidewalk Tilly grabbed Sophia’s elbow and pulled her into a doorway. A strong west wind swirled dust and debris down the street. At the center of the whirlwind, a pair of boys engaged in fisticuffs. Blood sprayed from the melee.

  When no one seemed inclined to intervene, Sophia pulled away from Tilly and said in her most authoritative teacher voice, “Boys! For shame!” A loud clap had no impact upon their brawl. “Stop this immediately! Have you no sense of propriety?”

  Somehow the pistol came out of her pocket and pointed overhead. Oh dear. Being arrested for the discharge of a firearm would undoubtedly prove detrimental to her teaching career at Brownell Hall.

  “No dessert for you!”

  Heads turned and jaws dropped along Farnam Street.

  “Dessert?” The two, who appeared twenty years older than their behavior led her to expect, stopped pounding each other and stared. “What kind of dessert?”

  A man in a blue uniform raced down from the police headquarters on Sixteenth Street, blowing his whistle. The officer scowled at the pair, then turned to Sophia. “Did you shoot them?”