MAKE sure you behave yourself while you're gone. Hannah glared at him and wagged a finger as though he were a child, as Jeremiah laughed at her.
You sound just like Mary Ellen.
Maybe we both know you too well.
All right, all right, I'll behave! He looked tired as he pinched her cheek. It had been a rough week, and she knew it. He had been to the funeral of John Harte's wife and two children. And now there were a few cases of the dread influenza at the Thurston mines, but so far no one had died, and Jeremiah was forcing everyone to be seen by the doctor at the first sign of a problem. He would have liked to put off his trip to the East, but he couldn't. Orville Beauchamp had insisted, in his response to the telegram Jeremiah sent him, that if he wanted to make the deal, Thurston had to come now. And Jeremiah had almost told him to go to hell, he felt like giving the deal to John Harte, but Harte was in no condition to discuss business, let alone go east, so Jeremiah decided to go ahead and take the train to Atlanta. But he wasn't looking forward to the trip. There continued to be something about the man in Georgia that annoyed him, no matter how good the terms of the deal sounded.
He bent and kissed the top of Hannah's head as he left, glanced around the cozy kitchen, picked up his leather bag in one hand, and his battered black leather briefcase in the other, his cigar clenched in his teeth, and his eyes squinting from the smoke. There was a big black hat pulled low over his eyes and he looked almost devilish as he walked quickly to the waiting carriage, flung his bags up and hopped up beside the boy driving the horses, quickly taking the reins from him.
Good morning, sir.
Good morning, son. He blew a thick cloud of smoke around him and touched the horses with a flick of the whip, and a moment later they were off, moving at a handsome pace down the main highway. He said nothing to the boy as he drove, his mind already involved with the deal he would be completing in Atlanta. And the boy watched him with utter fascination, the narrowed eyes, the deep lines beside them, the brow furrowed in concentration, the elegant hat, the broad shoulders, the huge hands, and the sheer cleanliness of him. The boy thought he was too clean to have been a miner, yet they said that he used to work in the mines himself. It was hard to imagine this powerful, enormous man ever squeezing himself into a mine. He seemed bigger than that to the boy as he watched him.
They were halfway to Napa before Jeremiah turned and smiled at him. How old are you, son?
Fourteen. It was exciting just being here beside him, and the boy liked the smell of his cigar, to him it seemed pungent and manly. Well ' I'll be fourteen in May.
You work hard in the mines?
Yes, sir. The voice trembled slightly, but Jeremiah wasn't checking up on him, only thinking back to his own life at fourteen.
I worked in the mines at your age too. It's hard work for a boy ' for anyone, for that matter. Do you like it?
There was a long pause, and then suddenly the boy decided to be honest. He trusted the huge man with the cigar, he had an appealing air of kindness about him. No, sir, I don't. It's dirty work. I want to do something different when I grow up.
Like what? Jeremiah was intrigued, with the boy himself, and his honesty.
Something clean. Like work in a bank maybe. My Dad says that's a weak man's job, but I think I might like it. I'm good with figures. I can do all my sums in my head faster than most people can write them.
Can you? Jeremiah attempted to keep a serious look on his face, but his eyes showed that he was amused. There was such an intensity about the youth and it touched him. Would you like to help me sometime on a Saturday morning?
Help you? The boy looked stunned. Oh, yes, sir!
I come in on Saturdays until about noon, because it's quiet. When I come back, come and see me some Saturday morning. You can help me with some figures and accounting sheets. I'm not as quick with my sums as you are. Jeremiah laughed. The boy's black eyes were suddenly as big as quarters. How does that sound to you?
Wonderful! ' Wonderful! ' He practically bounced up and down on the seat beside Jeremiah, and then suddenly subdued himself, remembering to assume a more manly demeanor, and that amused Jeremiah too. He liked the boy. In fact, he liked most children, and they liked him. And as he urged the horses on toward Napa, he found himself thinking of Mary Ellen's children. They were nice, and she did a good job with them. There was a lot on her shoulders, and he knew it, yet she never let him help her. And he certainly never had as far as the children were concerned. His only contact with them was for an occasional Sunday afternoon picnic. He wasn't there when they were sick, or when they caused trouble in school, when she had to nurse a sick baby, or spank them or hold them. He only saw them in their Sunday best, and that not very often. He wondered if he had failed her, by not helping her with the children more, but she didn't seem to expect that from him. She expected nothing more than what she got, his body meshed with her own in exquisite pleasure two days a week in the little house in Calistoga. And then suddenly, as though he thought the boy could read his mind, Jeremiah glanced worriedly over at him as they drove to Napa.
You like girls, son? He didn't know the boy's name and didn't want to ask him. He didn't really need to know, and he knew whose child he was. The father was one of his most trusted workers at the mines, a man who had nine other children, and most of them were girls, as Jeremiah recalled. This boy was one of three that worked at Thurston mines, and he was the youngest.
The boy shrugged in answer to Jeremiah's question about girls. Most of them are dumb. I've got seven sisters, and most of them are just plain stupid. Jeremiah laughed at the answer.
Not all women are stupid. Believe me, boy, a lot fewer of them are than we'd like to think. A lot fewer! He laughed out loud and drew hard on the cigar. There was certainly nothing stupid about Hannah, or Mary Ellen, or most of the other women he knew. In fact, they were even smart about covering up just how smart they were. He liked that in a woman, a pretense of helplessness and simplicity, when in fact there was a razor-sharp mind beneath. It amused him to play the game. And then suddenly he realized that maybe that was why he had never really wanted to marry Mary Ellen. She didn't really play the game. She was direct and straightforward and loving and sensual as hell, but there was no mystery about her. He knew exactly what he was getting, you knew just how bright she was and no more ' there was no guesswork, no discovery, no tiny sparring matches concealed beneath lace, and that had always been something that intrigued him. At least in recent years he seemed to like more complexity than he once had and wondered if it was a sign of old age. The thought amused him.
He looked over at the boy again, with a knowing smile. There's nothing as pretty as a pretty woman, boy, and then he laughed again, except maybe a rolling green hill with a field of wild flowers on it. He was looking at one now, and it tore at his heart as they drove past it. He hated leaving this land to go east. There would be a piece missing from his life, from his soul, until he returned here. Do you like the land, son?
The boy looked unimpressed, not sure what he meant, and then decided to play it safe. He had been brazen enough for one morning, and now he had the promise of Saturday mornings to protect. Yes. But Jeremiah knew from the empty way he said the word that he understood nothing of what Jeremiah meant ' the land ' the soil ' he still remembered the thrill that used to run through him at the boy's age as he picked up a handful of soil and squeezed it in his hand' . That's yours, son, yours ' all of it' take good care of it always. ' His father's voice echoed in his ears. It had started with something so small, and had grown. He had added and improved and now he owned vast lands in a valley he loved. That had to be born into your soul, bred into you, it wasn't something you acquired later. It fascinated him that it was something not all men had, but he had known for years that they didn't. And it was something that women had not at all. They never understood that passion for a pile of dirt as one of them had called it. They never knew, nor did the boy who rode along beside him, but Jeremiah didn't mind. One
day the boy probably would go to work in a bank, and be happy playing with papers and sums for the rest of his life. There was nothing wrong with that. But if Jeremiah had his way, he'd have tilled the soil for a lifetime, wandered through his vineyards, worked in his mines, and gone home bone tired at night, but content to the very core of his being. The business end of things interested him far less than the natural beauty and the manual labor it required to maintain it.
It was almost noon when they arrived in Napa, passing the farms on the outskirts first, and then the elaborate homes on Pine and Coombs streets with their well-manicured lawns, and perfectly trimmed trees surrounding large, handsome homes that were not unlike Jeremiah's house in St. Helena. The difference was that Jeremiah's house looked unloved and unused, it was a bachelor's home and somehow that showed, even on the outside, in spite of Hannah. It was the place where Jeremiah lived, where he slept, but his mines and his land meant more to him and it showed, and Hannah's influence was only felt in the comfortable kitchen and the vegetable garden. Here in Napa, on the other hand, were homes run by devoted matrons, who saw that the lace curtains at the windows were fresh at all times, the gardens lush with flowers, and the top floors filled with children. The houses were beautiful and it always pleased Jeremiah to drive past them. He knew many of the people here, and they knew him, but his was a more rural existence than theirs here in Napa, and the hub of his life had always been business, not social life, which was far more important here in Napa.
He stopped at the Bank of Napa on First Street before going to the boat and withdrew the money he needed for the trip to Atlanta. He left the boy outside with the carriage, and a few moments later he emerged, looking satisfied and glancing at his pocket watch. They were going to have to hurry to catch the boat to San Francisco, and the boy took special pleasure in urging on the horses for Jeremiah as he glanced at some papers. And they arrived at the boat in good time, as Jeremiah jumped down and took his bags in his hands. He smiled up at the boy for a brief moment. I'll see you on the first Saturday after my return. Come in at nine in the morning. And then suddenly he remembered the child's name, it was Danny. See you then, Dan. And take care of yourself while I'm gone. Jeremiah instantly thought of Barnaby Harte, dead of influenza, and felt something catch in his throat, as the boy beamed at him, and Jeremiah walked away and stepped onto the steamer to San Francisco. He had a small cabin reserved, as he always did on his trips to the city, and he sat down quickly and pulled a thick sheaf of papers out of his briefcase. He had plenty of work to do in the five hours it would take to reach San Francisco. The Zinfandel was a particularly nice boat, and Danny watched the paddle wheel with fascination as she left the dock.
At dinnertime, Jeremiah emerged from his cabin and sat at a small table by himself. A woman traveling with a nurse and four children eyed him several times from across the room, but he appeared not to notice until finally the young matron gave him a haughty look when they left the dining room, embarrassed to have had no effect on the handsome giant. He stood outside on the deck for a while smoking a cigar after that, and watched the lights of the city as they docked in San Francisco. His thoughts seemed to drift back to Mary Ellen more than they usually did when he was away from her, and he felt surprisingly lonely that evening as the Zinfandel docked and he took the hotel carriage to the Palace Hotel, where his usual suite waited. From time to time he was given to visiting a house of ill repute, with a madam he particularly liked, but now he had no such inclination. Instead, tonight he stood in his room, looking out on the city, and thinking back over the years. He had been in a melancholy mood ever since his night with John Harte, and it was hard to shake off even now, although here he felt light years away from Napa, its beauty and its sorrows.
The hotel itself was only eleven years old, and offered every possible comfort. And at last, unable to sleep, Jeremiah took a turn around the lobby. It seemed to be filled with expensively dressed people, women flashing handsome jewels, people returning from late dinners, theater parties, and evenings on the town. There was almost a holiday atmosphere downstairs, and Jeremiah went out for a brief walk down Market Street, and then returned to die hotel to sleep. He had a full day of appointments ahead of him before taking the train the following night, and he wasn't looking forward to the long confinement on the train on the way to Atlanta. Trains always bored him, and with a sensual smile before he drifted off to sleep, he wondered why he had never thought of bringing Mary Ellen, but the idea was totally absurd ' she didn't belong in this part of his life ' no woman did ' there was no room for anyone in his business life ' or in his private life ' or was there? He couldn't determine the answer as he fell asleep, and by the next morning he had forgotten the question. He had only a vague sense of malaise as he rang for the valet and ordered his breakfast. It arrived on an enormous silver tray half an hour later, along with the coat he had given them to press the night before, and his shoes, which had been shined to perfection. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that the Palace was one of the finest hotels in the country, and Jeremiah knew that nothing in Atlanta would compare, not that he really cared. What he dreaded were the six endless days on the train to Georgia.
As there were no private compartments available on the train, he had reserved an entire car for his private use. A small buffet was set up at one end, and there was an area with a desk in which he could work on the moving train and a bed that could be concealed. He always felt like an animal confined to a cage when he traveled by train. And the food they got at the stations along the way was barely worth eating. The only advantage to the trip was that it was a perfect opportunity to work, as there would be no one for him to speak to during the entire six days crossing the country.
He was already desperately tired of the journey as he walked into the station in Elko, Nevada, on the second day of the trip. He walked into the restaurant for a brief and predictably indigestible lunch composed of all fried foods like all the other meals they were offered and he noticed a startlingly attractive woman. She looked to be in her mid-thirties, was small and slight, with hair as raven black as his own. She had enormous almost violet eyes and delicate creamy skin and he noticed that she was very fashionably dressed, in a velvet suit that could only have come from Paris. He found himself staring at her throughout his lunch, and couldn't resist speaking to her as they left the restaurant at the same time, hurrying so as not to miss the train. He held the door open for her, and she smiled at him and then blushed, which he somehow found endearing.
Tiresome, isn't it? he said, as they hurried toward the train.
More like dreadful. She laughed, and he noticed from her speech that she was British. She had a large, beautifully cut sapphire ring on her left hand, but he didn't notice a wedding ring, and he found himself intrigued, enough so to wander through the train that afternoon, and he found her in the Pullman car, reading a book and drinking a cup of tea. She looked up at him in surprise, and he smiled down at her, feeling suddenly shy. He wasn't sure what to say to her, but he hadn't been able to get her out of his mind all afternoon, which was rare for him. There was something remarkable and magnetic about her and he felt it now as he stood near her seat, and suddenly she waved to an empty seat across from her. Would you like to sit down?
You wouldn't mind?
Not at all.
He sat across from her and they introduced themselves. Her name was Amelia Goodheart, and he soon discovered that she had been a widow for more than five years, and she was visiting a daughter in the South, and her second grandchild, recently born. Her first had been born only weeks before in San Francisco. Amelia Goodheart lived in New York.
You're awfully spread out, all of you. He smiled, passing the time, enjoying her smile, watching her remarkable eyes.
Too spread out for my taste, I'm afraid. Both of my oldest daughters married last year. The other three children are still at home with me. She was forty years old and one of the loveliest women Jeremiah had ever seen, and his eyes were riveted to
her as the train sped along. It was dinnertime before he could bring himself to stand up, and then suddenly he invited her to dine with him when they stopped at the next town. They left the train arm in arm, and he felt something stir deep inside him as she walked along at his side. She was the kind of woman one wanted to protect, to shield from all harm, and at the same time, show off, Look, she's mine! It seemed unimaginable that she could survive for even an hour alone, and yet she was funny and warm, and had a stiletto-sharp mind. He felt almost like a schoolboy as they talked, ready to grovel at her feet. He was instantly infatuated with her, and he invited her back to his private car after dinner for a cup of tea. She spoke of her husband with warmth and kindness as they rolled along. And she admitted to Jeremiah that she had apparently been totally dependent on him, and she was now, Anally, making the effort to get out in the world on her own, in this case to visit her two oldest children. It was quite obvious that this was her first adventure on her own, and somehow she seemed greatly amused and wondered why she hadn't done it before. Even the minor inconveniences seemed to trouble her not at all. She was the consummate good sport, and as Jeremiah looked at her, he felt certain that she was the loveliest woman he had ever seen.
For the first time in years, someone had managed to totally push Mary Ellen Browne from his mind. And how different they were. The one so simple and so staunch, so weathered and strong, the other more delicate, more complex, more elegant, more poised, and in her own way, probably even stronger than Mary Ellen. He was clearly drawn to them both, but it was Amelia who had his attention now. She mentioned that she had brought only a maid along, an elderly cousin had been scheduled to make the trip and had fallen ill, and Amelia had decided to go anyway. She wanted to see her girls, and I didn't really need another woman along. Cousin Margaret would hardly be able to take care of me. She laughed at the thought and Jeremiah smiled at her. There was something vulnerable about the violet eyes, and he suddenly longed to hold her in his arms, but he didn't dare. Instead they spoke of Europe and Napa, and his wines, his childhood, her children, his work. He wanted to sit and talk to her all night, but at last, after midnight, he saw her stifle a yawn. They had been together for almost eight hours, and yet he hated to walk her to her car and leave her there.
Thurston House (1983) Page 4
