Never Look Back

by Lesley Pearse

  Back in the early years when California relied solely on imported food and every other commodity, merchants made huge profits. But in the last eighteen months farms and factories had sprung up locally, providing the communities’ needs directly and squeezing out the middle men. There was a flour mill too, and a much larger fishing industry.

  There were no more quick fortunes to be made by buying and selling plots of land, and in speculative businesses bankruptcies were becoming ever more common. Skilled men like carpenters, stevedores, builders and teamsters could no longer command the excessively high wages they had demanded back in 1850 and ’51, and there were so many unskilled men and women looking for work that supply well exceeded demand for their labour.

  Matilda expected that her profits, too, would drop this year, and she doubted they would ever return to the high of her first two years. She had bought Simeon Greenstater’s and Charles Dubrette’s shares in the business not long before Zandra died, so she owned all but the one-fifth interest that Henry Slocum still retained. On Charles Dubrette’s advice she kept her savings in the bank in Oregon City, and her cash in her safe, for there was a distinct possibility that some of the banks here might fold in the near future.

  Yet while she knew she must keep a close eye on her own business and adapt to the changes all around her, Matilda’s real concern lay with the poor.

  Rowdy, mucky and lawless as San Francisco had been back in the early years, there had been no real poverty or hunger then. Men might lose everything at the gambling tables, but they helped one another and there was plenty of work for those who needed it. But it was different now, starving men and women begged in the streets, just as they had in New York. There was little help for the destitute, charities like the Ladies Relief and the YMCA could only help a tiny minority. As for medical help for the poor, that was almost non-existent. Conditions were so terrible in the Marine Hospital that few would even attempt to go there, people with infectious diseases were sent to the Pest House, and few came out of there alive.

  As she went back indoors she thought how much luck this city had brought her, and that perhaps it was time she put something back into it.

  During the afternoon Matilda was sitting at her desk in the parlour writing her weekly letters to Tabitha and Cissie when Dolores came in.

  ‘You should be out in the sunshine, ma’am,’ she said reproachfully ‘You’s spend way too much time indoors, it ain’t good for you.’

  Matilda smiled. Dolores was something of an enigma. She was the perfect servant, competent, loyal and entirely trustworthy, and since Zandra’s death she had transferred all the care and devotion which she had lavished on her old mistress to Matilda. But although she fussed around her like a mother hen, constantly urging her to eat more and work less, Matilda still hadn’t managed to break through the black woman’s reserve and discover her real feelings about anything.

  Zandra had told her that Dolores had turned up at her parlour house in New Orleans over twenty years ago, when she was around thirteen or so. She was in rags, half-starved, and her whole body scarred from a recent beating. She said she’d run away from the plantation she’d been born on when her mother was sold by her master. It appeared that she’d been raped too, but Dolores never confirmed or denied this. Zandra bathed, fed and clothed her, intending to pass her on to one of the organizations who helped runaway slaves, but the girl begged her to let her stay as a maid.

  Zandra had said she’d never met any girl who was so willing to learn, within two or three years she’d become an accomplished hairdresser and needlewoman, but it was her utter loyalty to her new mistress which endeared her to her the most. So Zandra kept her with her, through retirement, then on to San Francisco. She often remarked that in over twenty years, Dolores had never shown any emotion about anything and never told her anything personal.

  Matilda thought Zandra would have been very touched to see how Dolores reacted to her death. She stayed in her room with her body for the whole two days before the burial, wailing pitifully. Yet once that was over, she reverted back to her old dignified manner and asked Matilda if she could stay on as her maid.

  ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ Matilda said, glancing out of the window and thinking how inviting the sunshine looked. ‘Maybe I’ll go for a walk.’

  Dolores beamed. She was an exceptionally plain woman, tall and thin with sharp cheek-bones and a wide, splayed-out nose. Her usual expression was severe enough to daunt most people, and it was only when she gave one of her rare smiles that one got a glimpse of the kindness within her. ‘Good girl,’ she said, as if Matilda were a child. Then walking over to the window she touched the velvet drapes and frowned at them. ‘I’ll get these down while you’re gone and give them a good brushing,’ she said.

  Matilda put on her sturdiest boots and her plainest bonnet and slung her old grey cape round her shoulders. She glanced in the looking-glass and winced at her appearance. Her complexion looked muddy and what little hair that showed beneath the bonnet was dull. She thought Dolores was right, she did spend too much time indoors. She’d hardly been out at all since Zandra died.

  As she walked through the closed saloon Sidney was stocking up the bar for the evening. Since Zandra’s death, for propriety’s sake, he had moved into Dolores’ old room down behind the saloon, and Dolores had taken his room upstairs.

  ‘I’m going for a walk,’ she called out. ‘I’ll see you at supper-time.’

  They always had supper together in the kitchen upstairs. With Zandra gone, and Sidney living downstairs, it was their way of maintaining a family life and getting a chance to talk over any problems about the business.

  ‘Don’t go too far, it’s going to rain later,’ Sidney called back.

  Matilda smiled at his remark in disbelief as she walked down California Street Hill. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and it was almost too warm for a cape. A young couple ran past her hand-in-hand, their boots clattering on the planking, and she guessed they were making for the open space at the top of the hill. In summer it was a favourite place for courting couples, with the splendid view and the soft, sweet-smelling grass. She guessed that the warm sun had tempted them to go looking for a secluded place to make love.

  She turned for a moment to watch them running up the hill. Their backviews reminded her of herself and Flynn. They looked very poor, the girl’s bonnet was misshapen, her shawl and dress very shabby. The lad had a grey derby hat just like Flynn wore, and similar ill-fitting clothes.

  As she walked on she remembered the way Flynn had made her feel, the churning stomach, the sleepless nights wondering what he was doing, all those dreams which came to nothing. It was odd that a love which was once so momentous, so all-consuming, and so very painful when it ended, could become something she looked back on with a smile. But then perhaps that was because in time she’d come to see she had had a lucky escape. Yet Flynn was her first love, and he would always have a small place in her heart. She hoped he managed to achieve some of his big plans.

  Her thoughts turned to James some time later, once she was on the coastal path which led to the Presidio, the old adobe fort and mission built by the Spaniards some seventy-odd years ago, perhaps because he’d had been staying out at the fort the time she’d last seen him. She wished she could put him out of her mind, or at least find that her memories of him had turned to pleasant nostalgia, without the regrets and the heart ache. But he still gripped her heart, even after all these months. So often she remembered how Zandra had said she would have gone after him, and settled for being his mistress. Perhaps that’s what she should have done.

  But it was too late now for regrets, he was far away in New Mexico, and she must keep her father’s advice to ‘never look back’ firmly in her head. She looked around her as she walked, the sea was sparkling, the breeze soft and warm, the dirt and hubbub of the town seemed a hundred miles away, the only sound that of sea birds. The salty air was exhilarating, for the first time in months she felt tranquil, and pe
rhaps this meant she was on the mend at last, and that some new interest was about to present itself.

  A few carts and people on horses passed her as she walked on to the Presidio, and she planned when she reached there to take another route back into town. There were some black clouds gathering on the horizon, but she paid them no attention.

  One man in a light gig called out to her and asked if she wanted a ride back as there was a storm coming, but as he looked a disreputable sort of fellow and anyway she was enjoying her walk, she turned down the offer and continued.

  About a mile on, the sun suddenly vanished. Looking up, she saw the entire sky had grown black, and alarmed, she immediately turned back. It was a common occurrence in San Francisco for cold, thick mist suddenly to swirl in from the sea, but this was more than that, and within just a few seconds the first drops of rain began to fall.

  All at once there was not one person in sight, not a walker, cart or rider, and as the raindrops became heavier and faster, the path quickly turned to mud. Matilda regretted turning down the man’s offer of a ride, for he was right, it was a storm, not a shower, all light was fading fast, and she had some three or four miles to go before she’d reach any kind of shelter.

  Picking up her skirts, she began to run, but as the rain got heavier and heavier, so the path turned to a bog, and she was slipping and sliding. Her cape was drenched, her felt bonnet was sodden, and her boots were letting in water.

  She battled on, head down, but a wind had sprung up now, too, slowing her down even more, and as it worked its way through her wet clothes she found herself shivering with cold. But it was the ever deepening gloom which worried her the most, she had imagined it was only around four o’clock, but maybe it was far later than that, and it really wasn’t safe for a woman to be out alone in the dark.

  It became more and more difficult to walk. The slippery ground and the dark made it so treacherous. She stumbled several times and, afraid she might twist her ankle and then be unable to walk at all, she slowed right down, picking her way cautiously.

  As the darkness grew deeper Matilda became really scared, cursing herself for not listening to Sidney’s warning. She couldn’t even be sure she was on the real path. What if she had veered off it and was going towards the cliff edge! She couldn’t hear the sea, but then the rain was coming down so hard she doubted she’d even hear a cannon firing.

  On and on she went, at a snail’s pace, growing more frightened and cold by the minute. She had an awful feeling she might very well be going round and round in circles.

  Then, suddenly, she could hear something above the drumming of the rain. She stopped, peering ahead of her into the darkness her ears pricked up.

  It was horses’ hooves she could hear, and the jingling of spurs, a great many of them, and they were coming towards her. No sound had ever felt sweeter, for she guessed it had to be soldiers on the way to the Presidio.

  She stood her ground in the middle of what she hoped was the pathway to wait for them to get nearer. It crossed her mind that in the darkness, and her so wet and bedraggled, they might ignore her and ride by. But she gritted her teeth and got ready to call out.

  All at once she could see them, at least the dark shapes of men on horseback.

  Picking up her sodden skirts, she moved towards them. ‘Please help me. I’ve lost my way in the dark,’ she yelled out.

  There was no response, no single rider breaking ranks to come to her, they just kept on coming towards her, and now they were so close she could see the leaders, faces beneath their down-turned hats, tired, drawn and cold from a long ride.

  Instinct made her move back when she saw they were going to pass without stopping. For a moment she stared in disbelief as the first ten or so men rode by without even looking at her. Anger welled up inside her, for she knew that by tomorrow night these same men would be coming into London Lil’s to see the show. How dare they ignore a woman calling out for help on a lonely isolated path!

  ‘Help me, please!’ she yelled out again, trying to run alongside them. ‘I’m lost, cold and wet. Are you just going to leave me out here to perish?’

  She heard a couple of them laugh and that made her even more angry.

  ‘You leave me out here and none of you will ever set foot in London Lil’s,’ she screamed at the top of her voice. ‘And I shall make a formal complaint to your commanding officer.’

  But still they rode on. ‘Call yourselves men!’ she screamed. ‘Lily-livered bastards, the lot of you. I hope you all die of the pox.’

  Then suddenly one man at the back of the company broke ranks and rode up to her. ‘Well, at last we have a gentleman,’ she said.

  ‘And what is a lady doing out here on a dark wet night?’ he retorted.

  She felt like she’d been struck by lightning, for even though it was too dark to see the man’s face, his voice was so very familiar, and the sarcastic tone.

  ‘James!’ she gasped. ‘Is it really you?’

  ‘None other,’ he replied, leaping from his horse. ‘I do declare, ma’am, you turn up in the most unlikely places.’

  It crossed her mind that she might be delirious. Why should a man who meant so much to her suddenly appear just when she needed help? Yet it wasn’t wishful thinking, he was here, the rest of his company heading on towards the fort.

  She vaguely heard him call out to his men and say something about taking her home, but she was so stunned he could have been speaking another language.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she managed to gasp out as the last of the riders went by Her legs felt weak, she was so cold her teeth were chattering like castanets, and yet her heart was thumping like a bass drum.

  ‘I’ve got a new posting in Benicia,’ he said. ‘But why are you out here? You’re soaked right through.’

  ‘I was out walking when the storm began,’ she managed to get out, then her legs buckled under her.

  James caught her in his arms before she reached the ground. ‘What is it? Are you sick too?’

  ‘No, I’m not sick,’ she managed to get out. ‘I guess I’m just overcome with shock at you coming to my rescue. I was beginning to think I’d be out here all night, unable to find the way home. But I’m absolutely fine now you are here.’

  He held her tightly against him. He was as wet as her, and smelled strongly of horse, but nothing on earth had ever smelled so good. ‘Oh Matty,’ he murmured. ‘This has to be fate! When I knew I’d be passing through San Francisco I promised myself I would keep well away from you.’ His voice quivered with emotion. ‘But here we are again, like it was meant to be. How can either of us fight that?’

  She looked up. His hat was tipped back, his face shining with rain water. She had seen him like this so often on the trail, and it felt as if they had moved back a few years to that time when their friendship had been the one thing which made the trip bearable.

  ‘There’s no place I’d rather be,’ she whispered. ‘I’m not going to fight it.’

  His lips came down on hers. They were as cold and wet as her own, but his tongue parted her lips, and the unexpected warmth, the joy of being safe and in his arms, fired up all that desire which had lain dormant for so long. The kiss went on and on, growing in intensity as they clung together. The rain came down in sheets, the wind whistled around them, but they were oblivious to everything but one another.

  He lifted her off her feet and took her off the path under the shelter of a large tree, still kissing her. ‘I thought you were lost to me,’ he murmured, burying his face into her neck. ‘These months have been slow torture, I can’t believe you are flesh and blood. Tell me it isn’t just a dream!’

  She reached up and held his face between her two hands, looking into his eyes. It was too dark to see their colour, but she could see the passion and love in them. In that instant she didn’t care if he had a wife at home. She had known him first, he was hers by rights. Nothing mattered but the moment, not the children up in Oregon, Sidney and Dolores growing frant
ic at home because she hadn’t come back. Not his commanding officer in the Presidio, or his grand family back in Virginia. She wanted James, body and soul, and tomorrow could take care of itself.

  ‘Take me,’ she whispered and before he could make any protest, she kissed him again, and undulated her body against his. She heard a faint moan as his hands reached underneath her cape and he fumbled with cold fingers to unbutton the front of her gown. But as his hand found her breast, he let out a sigh of ecstasy.

  It was frantic, crude and rough, yet somehow it was far sweeter than making love in a warm and comfortable bed. Two cold bodies warming to each other’s touch, the shock of skin on skin, mouths clinging to one another, fingers searching out sensitive places, and the rain and the darkness enveloping them.

  As he bent to kiss her breasts, Matilda held her face up to the rain, delighting in the extremes of the cold on her face and his warm mouth nuzzling her. His hands were under her skirts now, his fingers lingering on the soft flesh on her inner thighs. Nothing had felt more sensual, or so delightfully wicked, and her fingers were reaching for the buttons on his pants, desperate to please him too.

  He gasped as she released his penis and held it lovingly in her hand. He pushed his fingers deep inside her, making her moan and writhe against him.

  ‘I love you, Matty,’ he whispered as he lifted her on to him, and all at once he was sliding into her, and it felt so good she screamed out his name.

  His fingers dug deep into her bottom, holding her up and moving her in time with him, and all the time his mouth never left hers, kissing her with such passion she felt she was melting into him.

  He stopped suddenly, and she realized he was withdrawing to protect her from pregnancy. She loved him even more then that he could think of her at such a moment, when that danger hadn’t even crossed her mind. He spent his seed against her belly, holding on to her, and still probing deeply into her with his fingers to give her pleasure. The last thing she heard as she gave herself up to the bliss of the climax was his whisper that he would love her for ever.