The Journey of Josephine Cain

by Nancy Moser

  Lewis was delighted.

  And petrified. Although the tickets were complimentary, there would be other expenses. A carriage, and perhaps dinner after the opera . . .

  It would require money he didn’t have.

  But money he could get. He had his ways.

  “Thank you for the delicious meal, Mrs. Cain,” Lewis said as he gathered his hat.

  “Of course, Mr. Simmons. You are welcome in our home anytime.”

  She offered him a shy smile, which surprised him. Obviously dropping his fork on the carpet hadn’t offended her too badly.

  Lewis nodded to Miss Cain. “Shall I fetch—come for you—at half past seven?”

  “That would be perfect,” she said. “I look forward to it.”

  “Very good,” the general said to him. “I will see you out.”

  Once the two men took the steps to the street, the general reached into the inner pocket of his coat. He pulled out the two tickets. “For you.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I know you must think me very presumptuous for pressing you to escort my daughter, but after speaking with you at the Chronicle offices, and getting a nod from Mr. Wilson . . . I am not usually so impulsive, but everything seemed to fit into place.”

  “As if it were meant to be, sir.” Lewis couldn’t have expressed it better himself.

  The general hesitated but a moment. “That, we shall see. But the truth is, my daughter’s desire to go out has been weighing heavily on me. When the opportunity arose to make her happy . . .” He sighed. “I am very glad to see a spark between the two of you.”

  He’d seen a spark? “Thank you, General. I find your daughter very lovely and charming, and I shall look forward to spending time in her company.” It felt good to be able to speak a truth.

  “Then you don’t take offense at my using you as a knight in shining armor to rescue Josephine from her prison?”

  “Prison?”

  “Mourning is a prison, my boy. One that can sap the life out of a person as sure as any torture.”

  Lewis nodded. He knew this firsthand.

  “It is time my Josephine was set free, time she was occupied with the pleasures of life. Time she was distracted.”

  Lewis found the last word odd. “Distracted?”

  “Never mind. Show her a pleasant time. Perhaps the opera can lead to other outings.”

  “Perhaps it could.” Gaining the approval of the Cains had been far easier than Lewis had hoped. Mentioning Mr. Vanderbilt had been a good idea, as was changing his father’s name to Thomas. That his father had worked with the mogul made the story easier to maintain.

  The general turned toward the front door. “Very good then. How lucky we ran into each other at the newspaper office.”

  “Yes, indeed.” Lewis smiled as he turned away, remembering one of his father’s favorite sayings: You make your own luck.

  Lewis Simmons’s gasp was just the reaction Josephine had hoped for.

  On the night of the opera, Josephine floated down the stairs to the foyer, feeling her confidence grow with each step. She couldn’t remember the last time a man had gasped upon seeing her—if one ever had.

  She watched Mr. Simmons’s eyes as he took in the sight of her.

  “You take my breath away,” he said in a near-whisper.

  That was what she had been aiming for. The joy she felt in putting on her ivory evening gown filled a place that had been empty too long. Yes, it was prewar fashion—for Mother would never have considered ordering something new while in mourning—but the dark gray stripes created from satin ribbon, and the oversized bows parading up the skirt to the bodice . . . she felt pretty. Luxurious. And very, very female.

  It gave her comfort to notice that Mr. Simmons was also wearing evening fashion a few years too old. As such, he wouldn’t be quick to judge. When he moved to the bottom of the stairs, she placed her gloved hand upon his and let him draw her toward the door.

  Their butler, Dowd, smiled. He held her shawl, but Mr. Simmons took over and wrapped it around her shoulders. “The evening is cool,” he said near her ear.

  On the contrary. Josephine felt very warm.

  Josephine was surprised that nearly every seat in Grover’s Theatre was filled. She had no idea life had moved on in DC society.

  She enjoyed the company of Mr. and Mrs. Wilson, who were very at ease in the setting as they greeted those around them.

  Josephine recognized a few people. She saw Mrs. Wiggins and Mrs. Doolittle. They had both lost husbands in the war, and yet they were here at an opera. Perhaps it was as Papa said—with the entire country in mourning, it was imperative people looked forward instead of backward.

  “Can you see well enough?” Mr. Simmons asked as the orchestra conducted its final tuning.

  “Perfectly,” she said. “And I wish to thank you.”

  “But the opera hasn’t started yet.”

  She shook her head in a short burst. “They could be playing ‘Dixie,’ and I would thank you.”

  He smiled his understanding.

  The gaslights dimmed, the orchestra began the overture, and the curtain opened.

  The curtain of her new life opened.

  As the opera began, she let herself escape to a land where wars were absurd and emotions keen, deep, but ultimately, happy. And then, finally . . .

  Josephine knew what was coming next. The duet. Her brother’s favorite song.

  She leaned close to Mr. Simmons. “It’s next.”

  He nodded. Josephine drew in a breath, readying herself for the music that had so entranced Thomas.

  The flute and the violin began the soft arpeggio, and then the soprano came in. Josephine closed her eyes, blocking out everything but the sound. The rhythm made her want to loll her head back and forth in a gentle lullaby.

  Then the other woman joined in, melding her voice with the first until Josephine couldn’t tell where one voice began and the next ended. Two became one, mimicking each other, trilling back and forth, wooing each other to heights beyond the ability of a single voice. The words weren’t important. It was all about the music, the marriage between melody and harmony.

  Yes, Thomas, I understand. Do you hear the music with me? Is God letting you look down from heaven to share this? Oh please, Lord, let us enjoy this music together.

  And then the song ended.

  Josephine opened her eyes and noticed that her head was tilted upward, just as Thomas’s had been on that long-ago evening. And she knew, just knew, that tonight they had both heard the music.

  A handkerchief appeared in view. From Mr. Simmons.

  Only then did she realize she had been crying.

  She dabbed at her eyes and the opera continued.

  Mr. Simmons drew her hand around his arm.

  She did not move it away.

  “How was your evening?” Frieda asked as she unbuttoned the back of Josephine’s gown.

  “Perfect.”

  Frieda spun her around. “The music, or the companion?”

  “Both.”

  Frieda’s eyebrows rose. “You like him, then?”

  “I do.”

  “I caught a glimpse of him out the window when he helped you into the carriage. He is very handsome.”

  “He is.”

  Frieda returned to the buttons. “I still cannot believe your mother let you go.”

  “Neither can I. But I hope the freedom will continue.” It was Josephine’s turn to face Frieda. “She will let him court me, won’t she?”

  “Is that what he’s going to do? Is that what you want him to do?”

  Josephine thought for a flicker of a moment. “Yes.”

  “What about going out west with your father?”

  She had considered this. As the evening progressed, and the old feelings of romance and hope and possibilities wove a warm cocoon around her, she’d thought, What about going with Papa? She hadn’t allowed herself an answer then, and only reluctantly allowed herself an an
swer now. “I think—I think I would be all right staying here.”

  “Now aren’t you the fickle filly,” Frieda said, as she drew the dress over Josephine’s head.

  Free of its weighty encumbrance, Josephine tried to untie the petticoat in back. “I am not fickle. I had no reason to stay before now.”

  Frieda batted Josephine’s hands away and unfastened the petticoat and the hoop, allowing Josephine to step out of them. “So this man, Mr. Lewis Simmons, has given you cause to be reasonable in one short evening? Does he know how much power he has over you?”

  “He does not have power over me. He has simply shown me a glimpse of the way things used to be and could be again.” She sat on the edge of the bed and removed her garters and stockings. “I was never allowed to enjoy the perks of a proper young lady. I was on the verge of all that when the war started and ruined everything.”

  Frieda flashed her a look.

  Josephine cringed at her own tactlessness. “Oh pooh,” she said. “You know what I mean. I understand the cruelty of the war, how necessary and how costly. I know all that. But am I not allowed to grieve the loss of my young womanhood? Everything I looked forward to and planned for was put on hold. Tonight Mr. Simmons helped me see that it wasn’t dead, just sleeping. I can have a life again. I can see people and have friends and enjoy myself and get out of this house. I can look forward instead of back. That is not against some moral law, is it?”

  Frieda placed Josephine’s coral necklace and earrings in their velvet box. “It is not.” She pointed a finger. “Who loves you best?”

  “You do.”

  “Exactly. So if this courting proceeds, I only ask that you don’t try to pretend things are what they are not. I have been living with this family since before you were born. I know you, Josephine Cain, and love you in spite of it. Be true to yourself, and not to some imagined image of courtship and love.”

  Josephine smiled and draped a stocking over each of Frieda’s shoulders before kissing her cheek. “What would I do without you?”

  “You would be one muddled and befuddled young lady.”

  “So . . . do you approve of Lewis Simmons?”

  “I know nothing about the man, but I approve of your being courted. I will leave it to your parents to decide his worthiness.”

  “Good, because—”

  “But what I approve of most is having that Wild-West notion knocked out of your head. You? On the plains amongst Indians and ruffians? I think not.”

  “But you would have been with me.”

  “I would not!”

  “Would you not follow me anywhere?”

  “Anywhere civilized.” She brought Josephine her nightgown. “That you have found a reason to stay here in Washington is fine by me.”

  Lewis removed his top hat and cape before he turned onto his street. He knew it was best not to stick out when walking along the canals at night.

  Luckily the shops were all closed—except for the barroom on the corner. Once he got past the drunks there, he would feel safe. Safer.

  He hugged the shadows and walked quickly.

  “Hey! You! Got a spare coin for a needy sod?”

  The man staggered off the curb and only missed falling face-first onto the street by the saving arm of his friend. “Come on now. Want to share a pint, fancy man?”

  Lewis hurried away, just short of a run. Only a block more.

  But then he tripped, falling on his hands and knees.

  The cause of his fall moaned and curled around his bottle.

  The butchershop was just a few steps away. Lewis reached in his pocket and retrieved his key, readying it for the door to the right of the shop. He heard laughter farther down the street, and then a scream.

  He opened the door, spilled inside, and slammed it shut. He locked himself in. Only then did he allow himself a breath.

  The landing at the foot of the stairs was void of all light, but he didn’t mind. This was his place, his flat. No one could touch him here. He waited until his heart calmed, then felt his way up the narrow flight. Once inside his room, the moon supplied enough light until he lit a lamp.

  Not that there was much to see. A bed, a dresser, a chair, and a tiny table. A stove in the corner for heat and to make coffee. Water retrieved from a pump outside.

  He could do without water until morning.

  Lewis carefully removed his evening coat and hung it on the only hanger. The entire ensemble had belonged to his father, who’d bought it just before he’d been killed. Lewis was relieved it wasn’t too out of style and even more glad that the rules of etiquette had eased a bit due to the war. He never would have been able to afford new evening attire.

  He placed the top hat on the table, removed the frilly shirt, and smelled beneath the arms. He’d wash it in the sink at work tomorrow. Mr. Connelly, the butcher, didn’t mind sharing a bit of soap and water with his best worker.

  Work. He had to be at work by seven. He had to sleep.

  Lewis fell upon the bed and let the memories of the music fall upon him.

  Seeing Josephine’s face in utter rapture, lifted to heaven, totally engrossed in the music . . . she had looked like an angel.

  Somehow, someway, he had to make her his angel.

  Lewis Simmons married to the daughter of a Union general.

  What an ironic and satisfying coup that would be.

  Josephine awakened to two thoughts: Papa is leaving today without me.

  And, that’s all right.

  It was the addendum to the first thought that was the most shocking. She had been so sure going west was what she wanted and needed, so sure it would happen—in spite of Papa’s initial objections.

  The reason for her change of heart was simple and could be expressed in one word: Lewis.

  Was she in love?

  Don’t be ridiculous. Even she knew love took time. There was no such thing as love at first sight. But the possibility of love was a mighty incentive to stay put and see what happened.

  Yet for now . . . she needed to dress quickly so she could see Papa off on his journey.

  Chapter Four

  Upon arriving in Omaha, General Reginald Cain stepped onto the platform at the back of one of the bunk cars, and called the workers to gather ’round.

  Hudson was glad to see the general again. He hadn’t changed much since the war, though he did look a little older.

  Didn’t they all.

  Although Hudson had worked with the other men every day, seeing them all gathered together in one place emphasized their disparity. There were men of every size and color, from fair-haired Irishmen with their lilting voices, to men with olive-toned skin and black hair who spoke Italian. There were dark-skinned Negroes and towheaded Swedes. There were men wearing the remnants of Union uniforms and Confederate. They all had two things in common: they needed work, and they thirsted after a new life.

  The general raised his arms, and the men quieted. “Men of the Union Pacific! It is finally time to march forward, to leave Omaha and move this railroad west!”

  A roar erupted. Cheers.

  “I look across this rail yard and see heady evidence of intricate planning and work. Hard work is the fuel that will move this railroad west. Upon your backs a fresh nation will be born!”

  More cheers.

  “It is clear that the workers of the Union Pacific are ready, willing, and able to lay track across prairies, rivers, and mountains until we come nose-to-nose with those men of the Central Pacific working their way east from Sacramento. Without men like you, the dream dies. But with you . . . are you up to the task of connecting this great nation from ocean to ocean?”

  More cheers and affirmation, then a chant of “U-P! U-P! U-P!” Hudson joined them, pumping his fist in the air for the Union Pacific.

  Raleigh leaned toward him, beaming. “This is what we needed.”

  “He is what we needed.”

  Josephine swept into her dressing room. “Thank you for coming over, Rachel
. I have scant notion of what is in fashion after a year in mourning.” Rachel Maddox was the perfect advisor since her father owned a large mercantile. As she was also the perfect chaperone for tonight’s dinner, being a married woman. Josephine was ever so glad to be invited along—with Lewis, of course.

  “I am happy to oblige.” Rachel perused the gowns. She pulled out the skirt of a grayish-black dress and raised an eyebrow at Josephine.

  “It used to be light blue. We dyed it black for mourning, but it has faded.”

  “It is frightful.”

  Josephine had to agree. She pulled out a white satin with red bows. “How about this?”

  Rachel put her hand to her cheek and studied the gown. “The skirt is too wide. Fashion is leaving the crinoline behind.”

  “In favor of what?”

  “A lot of petticoats.” She smoothed her hand against her abdomen. “A smoother front is becoming the fashion.”

  Josephine despaired. She didn’t have anything that owned that silhouette.

  “Perhaps if you wore the white without the cage?” She sat on the tufted ottoman. “Put it on and let me see.”

  It was worth a try. With Rachel’s help Josephine stepped out of her day dress, removed her crinoline undercarriage, and added additional petticoats. Then Rachel helped her lift the satin gown over her head and buttoned a few of the buttons that paraded up the back.

  “Without the hoop, it’s a little long,” Josephine said, looking in the mirror.

  “That is not a problem,” Rachel said. She took Frieda’s pincushion and began to pull portions of the skirt into draped flounces, drawn toward the back. Her work finished, she stepped away to measure the effect. “Add a few rosettes or bows at the top of the flounces, and you have a new gown.”

  It was really quite nice. But then Josephine thought of Frieda, and the fact the dinner was tonight. “I don’t know if Frieda can alter it by then.”

  “You will never know if you do not ask.” Rachel walked out of the dressing room and called out, “Frieda? We need you.”

  Not a minute later, Frieda came into the room. Her eyes swept over the refashioned gown as Rachel explained the adjustments that needed to be made.