That we was why I loved her. Nellie stayed by my side through every trial. The stillbirth. Ben’s death. My illness. Jack’s affairs and his death—if indeed he was dead. She had engineered my acceptance in the finest parlors in San Francisco—Nellie was a true friend.
I recovered my wits enough to turn attention to the letter. “Surely this man was mistaken.”
“Mistaken identity, that must be it.” Nellie retrieved the fallen pages and offered them to me. “Perhaps the letter goes on to explain that very thing.”
I pushed the pages back into her hands. “You read the rest to me, please.” My chest felt so tight; my breath, so strained. I prayed the consumption wasn’t returning. Nellie rustled through the sheets until she found the place I’d left off.
You can imagine my surprise—a complete shock, really— when Alistair Partnow—you will remember him, he owned the feed and grain store—returned two months ago from a trip to Seattle, swearing as God was his witness, that he had seen my nephew Jack Joyner and he was very much alive.
I had no idea what to make of this. Was it an old gentleman’s mistaken eyesight? Or was Jack alive?
To make a long story short, I hired a Pinkerton to discover the truth. My dear, I wouldn’t even share this news if you were still convalescing, but your brother assures me this is not the case. I haven’t divulged the Pinkerton’s findings to another living soul, except my solicitor, because this news rightfully belongs to you first, as Jack’s wife. My nephew is truly alive and well in Seattle. He sent the Pinkerton packing, claiming he was Arnold Hyde now and that’s the way he wanted it to stay. The Pinkerton has delivered a letter to Jack revealing my betrayal of his mother. Mea culpa.
I have no idea why my nephew deserted you as he apparently has done, why he has chosen to assume the alias of Arnold Hyde, who died in the hotel fire. Maybe Jack was more of his father’s son than I believed him to be—the apple not falling far from the tree and all that. If so, I am ashamed for my role in encouraging his courtship of you.
My dear girl, I cannot imagine how shocking, how alarming, this news must be to you and pray it doesn’t cause a relapse. I considered leaving you in ignorance, but I concluded how much worse if you found out some other way. I imagine you have many questions you would like my nephew to answer, but whether or not you choose to confront him is up to you. In any case, you may have need of a solicitor regarding your compromised position as the wife of Dr. Martin. I hope you will forgive me for bearing such distressing news.
With all fondness,
Your Aunt Elizabeth
As each word passed through Nellie’s lips, my head ached worse—and still worse. Jack, alive. It seemed I had two husbands. As the depths of Jack’s duplicity sank in, my nails clenched tighter and tighter into my flesh. I held up my hands and examined the half moons my nails had cut into my palms, laughing bitterly.
“Do you think it’s illegal to kill someone who is already dead?”
~~~
As soon as I entered Father Martin’s office at the Mint, he stood and pulled out a chair, every bit as solicitous and well-mannered as his son. Although we had shared Sunday meals together twice a month as a family, this was the first time I had occasion to visit him at the Mint. The first occasion I found myself in his presence unaccompanied by his son and our child. The strangeness of those circumstances by themselves would have made me uncomfortable. My mission made me even more nervous—except I had no idea whom else I could trust. He inquired about the health of his son and granddaughter. I reciprocated and then it seemed my tongue was lodged permanently in my throat. I could see by the senior Mr. Martin’s raised eyebrows, that he, too, wondered what I was doing in his office.
I cleared my throat. “I was hoping you could recommend a competent lawyer to handle a small but important matter for me.”
His eyebrows raised even further, and I am sure he was wondering why I had come to him rather than my husband, but I hadn’t found the courage to tell Val about Aunt Elizabeth’s letter. In typical elder-statesman style, Val’s father leaned forward and offered to handle my problem himself or at least to take the problem to a lawyer for me. “Dealings with lawyers are best handled by men.”
How tiresome! Men assumed they were better at everything occurring outside of a kitchen or nursery. “Very kind of you, but no, I must do this myself.”
He drew back, all business now, clearly offended by my dismissal of his offer. The first two men the senior Mr. Martin suggested were of “good” families. Too visible for what I had in mind. I needed a working lawyer, not one of those rich men who needed something to fill in their daylight hours—if nothing more important came along.
“Someone of more modest means would suit my purposes better,” I said.
Mr. Martin twiddled one end of his waxed mustache. “William Nelson, then. People take little notice of him, but he’s handled several matters for me. He’s a single fellow, sharp and hard-working.”
“Let me call and make an appointment for you,” he said. “Since we have worked together before, I am sure he will expedite matters for you.”
I waited nervously while he exchanged a few pleasantries with the lawyer and arranged for me to meet with him later that day. At the end of the call, I stood, unwilling to take up any more of his time—and fearful of questions he might ask.
“Thank you, Father Martin. I appreciate your help and your discretion.”
He brushed off my thanks. “Such a small bit of assistance isn’t worthy of mention. What is family for? I am always at your service, Rosella.”
Later that afternoon I walked down the hand-cut stone path along the side of Mr. Nelson’s modest home where a shingle marked his law office. Through the window, I saw the lawyer peering at a newspaper through wire-rimmed glasses. He wore a neat but inexpensive suit. The books lining his office shelves were arranged just unevenly enough I could tell he actually referred to them. I would have been embarrassed if he caught me looking in his window, so I took a few more steps to his office door and knocked.
I accepted his invitation to sit down and began immediately before my courage faltered. “Mr. Nelson, I have come to you about a matter that requires the utmost, complete discretion.”
“That goes without saying, Mrs. Martin. My profession is bound by a code of ethics and discretion is always paramount in our conduct.”
I doubted many lawyers practiced that code to the degree which I required. There could be no gossip repeated to a wife or drinking friend, which would be repeated at church or to a bartender. I wanted to know all my options.
“I need to understand certain laws, Mr. Nelson.” How dare I go on? What would he think of me? It didn’t matter. “I need to thoroughly understand laws regarding matrimony.”
I coughed discreetly into a handkerchief. Nerves, I hoped, not the consumption returning. I looked out the window to avoid the lawyer’s eyes, which I felt penetrated to my very soul. “Bigamy, to be specific. And laws regarding divorce. I would like to know about these”—I searched for a word and couldn’t think of one—“things. And I need to know quickly.”
I dared to look at him and discovered Mr. Nelson hadn’t so much as blinked. “Mrs. Martin, I will need further details.”
I coughed again. “These are not matters I wish to divulge in detail.”
“I understand. Yet the more I know, the more I will be able to assist you. Laws vary somewhat from state to state, you understand. Perhaps you can start with that. Name the state whose laws you wish me to explain.”
What state should I name? West Virginia where Jack and I had married? California where a tombstone marked Jack Joyner’s grave? Or Washington state where he was living now under another name? Could I trust this man? I studied William Nelson again. The unwavering gaze. If he felt disapproval or shock, nothing in his face betrayed it.
I leaned forward in my chair, my gloved hands resting on the edge of Mr. Nelson’s worn desk. “Six years ago I received a telegram informing me my hus
band died in a hotel fire and the only remains I received were ashes. I erected his tombstone in the Oakland cemetery, not far from where we lived.”
“Ahhh, with your permission, I’m going to interrupt and tell you about laws in California that might govern your situation. I don’t need to know if they actually govern it. Let’s deal in hypotheticals.” He searched along his bookshelf, pulled out a fat volume, and searched the index. “According to the California Penal Code, the state exempts from its laws regarding bigamy any person by reason of any former marriage whose husband or wife by such marriage has been absent for five successive years without being known to such person within that time to be living.”
I let myself lean back into the padded leather chair. Thanks be to God!
“The key,” Mr. Nelson continued, “is that the husband or wife must remarry believing the spouse is dead. Then he or she would not be guilty of bigamy.”
I closed my eyes and held the handkerchief to my mouth but no cough came. “And if a wife has remarried and the first husband is found to be alive after six years, would she—should she—would it be necessary to seek divorce?”
“No, since the first husband has deserted and not provided sustenance during that time, divorce would not be necessary.”
The relief that swept over me was palpable, releasing the tension in every muscle. I needn’t bother Val with Elizabeth’s letter at all. Jack might as well be dead as far as we were concerned.
Still somewhat dazed by all that had transpired over the past day, I wandered down the street and stopped to buy carrots and onions at the market. I selected those vegetables and idled on toward the bin of green beans. Their color had faded slightly, past their prime and likely stringy. I gathered my purchases and prepared to leave when I noticed a tall, dark-haired man looking in the window of the store across the street. Jack! I felt my blood seize up. The silence of the world was deafening, its axis, the crowds, the streetcars and horses—all stilled.
When the man turned, I saw at once it wasn’t Jack at all, just a tall fellow with dark hair, one of thousands, millions. With relief, I laughed at myself. My imagination had run amuck.
I hurried home, more carefree than I’d felt in ages, eager to embrace my husband. I fixed his favorite chicken pot pie for dinner, a dish that could rest in the oven. Solina would be napping when Val got home and I planned to take advantage of the opportunity. Finally, there he was, with his gaunt face, that mountain slope of a nose, and legs as long and lean and gawky as an egret’s. We looked at each other for a long second, and I was remembering everything I loved about him. His smile, his enthusiasm, his sense of honor. The way he’d worked tirelessly in the makeshift hospital for the people of San Francisco yet still managed to see me to safety. The way he’d doctored Ben and found Arequipa for me. The way he encouraged my art. The passion he put into playing the cello. His quirky experiments and unending efforts to help his patients. His standing by me in sickness and health, for better or worse—even before we’d taken any vows.
I raised up onto my toes and kissed him slowly, passionately on the mouth.
“That was nice.” He drew back and held me at arm’s length. “Now, what’s this I hear about Jack’s being alive?”
There went my plans to seduce my husband. Dear Nellie never could keep a secret.
1912
Rumbling and a whistle announced the approaching train. I continued to have misgivings even as our departure neared. Were we doing the right thing by moving to West Virginia? It meant leaving Nellie behind, and Little Cuss, who would remain with her. She had often taken care of him and loved the little terrier as much as I did, had begged me to leave her something to love. I would miss them both terribly but I would be closer to my brothers and their families—and oh, how I missed the hills I’d once called home!
The catalyst for this change was a surprising letter from a solicitor informing me that Aunt Elizabeth had passed away and left her home to me. I couldn’t help but wonder why me—and not Jack—but her will explained since she felt her matchmaking had resulted in the sad state of affairs that left me alone in San Francisco, the least she could do was make it possible for me to return to my family and community. I could read between the lines. She blamed herself for Jack’s abdication of his marital responsibilities. It was not her fault, but guilt is a hard taskmaster. The rest of her estate, a considerable sum of money, she divided among Jack’s three still living brothers and sisters.
I could have sold Elizabeth’s home and remained in California, but the relationship between Val and Dr. Kasbarian had long been strained, Val being excessively progressive for the older man’s taste. I had noticed, too, that Val’s quirkier experiments embarrassed his father and had caused a certain stiffness in their interactions. So when Val learned Harrison County had need of another doctor, he eagerly agreed to begin his own practice there. Aunt Elizabeth’s carriage house would be ideal for conversion into a doctor’s office.
The train whistle crowed again, much closer now, I thought— although sounds could carry unusual distances in the rain. Despite the inclement weather, the shed master was out directing his crew to shunt cars from one track to another. But as the rain pelted down harder, he withdrew into the roundhouse. Finally the engine came into view, the cattle pusher and cab out in front, a long procession of box cars, Pullmans, dining cars, gondolas, and hoppers coupled behind. The brakes squealed and steam hissed as the train slowed near the platform.
A redcap disembarked first, carrying luggage. Behind him, two more redcaps shouldered a trunk between them. Passengers swarmed off the train and into the station house.
I felt as if I’d swallowed a lump of sand. In minutes, I would bid Nellie goodbye. Who knew when we would see each other again? Val, Solina, and I would board the train and head off to a new and different life.
I would still be able to make pottery. I had a letter from Mr. Rhead and learned that the clay near the Ohio River made excellent pottery. Several factories were producing beautiful wares: Roseville, Weller, McCoy. Val promised me I would have my own small studio so I could perfect the techniques I’d learned at Arequipa.
It was time to board. I went through the motions of hugs for Nellie and Little Cuss and my father-in-law, who’d come to see us off, but I felt as if my movements occurred underwater, the sounds muted, distorted, my limbs moving unnaturally.
I raised my umbrella and stepped outside to board, clutching Solina close at my side so she wouldn’t get wet. Raindrops beat like a drum on my umbrella and splashed off the ground onto the dark skirt I’d chosen for travel. We hurried to stay as dry as possible. Once inside and seated, I glanced out the window long enough to see Nellie standing in the rain, one hand over her mouth, and I knew she was crying. I looked away, wanting to cry too. I didn’t dare or I’d gather my daughter and husband and run back into the station house, back to the city I’d called home since I was fifteen. Back to the city where I’d buried my son and a husband whose grave was empty.
I hugged Solina to my side and held onto Val’s hand. They were my life now.
~~~
I couldn’t take my eyes off the well-remembered redbuds and dogwoods that painted the West Virginia countryside pink and white as the train rolled over the mountains from Kentucky to West Virginia. Yellow-green leaves were bursting forth on trees. These things, once too familiar to notice, I absorbed with newfound appreciation. What a relief, when we finally disembarked in Clarksburg. Timmy (everyone called him Tim now but he would always be Timmy to me) and his wife were there to welcome us and carry us to our new home, a dozen or so blocks from the station. We made plans to gather the family under one roof in a few days’ time.
It had been years since I’d seen Aunt Elizabeth’s house, but it was every bit as impressive as I’d remembered. My eyes leapt from the white exterior with its gingerbread trim and wraparound porch to the lilacs leaning over, heavy with wet buds, to the chickens scratching the dirt in the side yard. Aunt Elizabeth’s solicito
r had continued to pay a gardener and housekeeper to make sure the home remained in good condition. It was fully furnished with her family’s good pieces, ready for us to make it our own.
“Storybook perfect,” Val said, as he stood before the house for the first time. “This is what home should look like, the perfect place to raise a family. I think I’ll hang a swing on that big oak tree in the side yard—how would you like that, Solina?”
“Yes, Papa, please! Tomorrow.” She skipped over to the tree and ran around it and around it until she became dizzy and collapsed on the ground. I could hardly scold her. The long train journey had been hard on a six year old—all that energy confined to a small compartment. I’d done my best to entertain her with stories about the cousins she was going to meet.
I laughed. “You might have to wait for that swing until we unpack our belongings.”
Oh, I knew Val was romanticizing the place—after all I’d grown up here and knew the folks were pretty much the same as those in San Francisco, the good and the bad mixed up in each one. People were people. Yet, as soon as we stepped off that train to start our lives here, I could feel the mask peel away, feel my true self shining through. I no longer needed fancy gowns as armor and disguise. I belonged here. I wasn’t the same Rosella Krause who had left home or even the Rosella Joyner who’d shaped herself into a lady. As Rosella Martin, I could be myself—and Val wouldn’t have me any other way.
I shared his hopes that our lives here would be good. We had a decent sum of money put aside to build a pottery shed and fix up Val’s office. And our property, very close to downtown Clarksburg, was situated ideally for a doctor’s practice.
Buried Seeds Page 26
