When Maggie said nothing, Louise cleared her throat. “I tell you this out of the goodness of my heart, so that you understand why Mary does not care for men.”
“I must start supper, Mrs. Madrid,” Maggie said, rising. “I shall finish the mending later.”
Louise was irked and said, “You may put it aside. I should like you to make a dress for me. I have the fabric already. Mary says you were a dressmaker in Chicago, Mrs. Hale.”
Maggie was startled. She still was not used to her new name.
* * *
HER LAST NAME was actually Kaiser, Maggie told Mary after she had been at the farm for a week and knew Mary would keep her secret. She hadn’t said anything at first for fear the truth would make Mary reconsider taking her in. She would have changed her first name, too, if she had been quick enough to think of it.
“You should know who you have brought under your roof,” Maggie said one night after the others had gone to bed. Maggie had mixed up the bread dough and set it near the fireplace to rise overnight.
Mary was putting away the supper dishes the two had washed and dried and was about to pour the water remaining in the teakettle into the tin cans holding the geraniums, which she had taken from the windowsill to keep them from freezing. She held the kettle in her hands for a moment, then said, “Louise is in bed upstairs. What do you say to a cup of the good tea?”
Maggie grinned. Louise allowed them to drink only the cheap tea that Mary brought home from the store, keeping the expensive tea for herself, for her nerves, she insisted. “I say you deserve it,” Maggie told Mary.
Filling the kettle, Mary set it on a grate in the fireplace and added kindling to the fire, then took out a small china teapot with pink flowers painted on it. Louise had claimed the teapot was a wedding gift to her from Mary’s mother, but Mary confided that the pot had been in the Madrid family for years, and her mother had promised it to her. Louise did not allow Mary to touch it, for fear the big woman would break it, although Maggie had noticed that Mary was not clumsy. “We will have a tea party. Shall we go into the parlor?” Mary asked and reached for china cups and saucers instead of the tin cups.
The parlor was cold and fussy, however, and Maggie said she would rather sit at the scrub-top kitchen table near the fireplace. Besides, Clara lay sleeping on a pallet in the kitchen. Maggie sat down at the table, enjoying the homey scene. She once had thought marriage would be like this—a fire, a sleeping child, tea with someone she loved.
Mary settled herself in a chair, then said, “I do not require you to tell me anything. You are my friend, and I know you for a good woman.”
Maggie reached across the table and squeezed Mary’s hand. Then she said, “I am a married woman, and it is possible, even probable, that my husband is still alive, although I wish to God he was not. I tried to kill him. His name is Jesse Kaiser.”
Mary only nodded, and Maggie continued. She had never told anyone what had gone on in her marriage and had believed it would be difficult, but the words poured out as she unburdened herself.
“It was true love when I met him. He was so thoughtful. He brought me violets, and when my hands were cramped from sewing, he rubbed them with oil. My parents did not approve of him, and they told me if I married him, they would be through with me. But I was in love.” She shook her head. “How foolish we are when we are young. I never thought to inquire what work he did and discovered too late that it was gambling, and he was not good at it. We were not married a month when he hit me the first time. I had been brought up in refinement and never considered that I would have to earn my living. He said I must help support us. My only skill was stitching, and so I set myself up as a dressmaker and was quite fortunate to attract some wealthy clients. Among them was that Mrs. Whitney, although I do not know her well and have made only two or three dresses for her. Jesse said my earnings as a seamstress belonged to him as my husband. When I protested, he struck me. He beat me again after a coachman came to pick up a dress, saying I had been unnatural with the man, and another time he accused me of holding back money from him. After a while, he did not need a reason to hurt me. I thought the beatings would stop when I conceived, but they only grew worse.”
“And after Clara was born?”
“I had a son first.” Maggie’s throat contracted, and she blinked back tears. “Richard. We called him Dick.” Maggie paused to gain control of her voice. It hurt so much to talk about the boy. “Jesse was thrilled. For a time, he was once again the loving man who had courted me. Then I conceived again, and the beatings became worse than ever. He asked how I expected him to support two children, although it was I who brought in the money. I hid enough to buy food for Dick and me and gave Jesse the rest, which he gambled away. After Clara was born, Jesse said he had no use for a daughter, and he left us.
“I was glad. I did not make a great deal of money, but it was enough for a room and what we needed, although sometimes when the women were late in paying me, I took the children to the Kitchen. Reverend Swain’s wife operated it, and at the church I was afraid she would recognize me, because Jesse once caused a scene there, saying I had embarrassed him by seeking charity.”
Mary had poured the hot water into the teapot and added the tea leaves to steep. Now she went to the stove and poured the tea into the cups. “I can chip a little sugar off the cone if you want it,” she said, but Maggie shook her head, saying she was not used to sugar in her tea. Mary set down the cups and seated herself. “If it is too painful, you need not go on. It is not necessary that I know.”
“I will be all right. It is like a weight off my chest to tell of it.” Maggie took a sip of the tea and smiled. She had rarely had such good tea and understood why Louise wanted to keep it for herself. “Jesse came back to see me from time to time. If he had won at gambling, he brought us sweets and once a diamond ring, or so he claimed. I tried to sell it and discovered it was glass. Then he would lose again and demand money and beat me. When he was in the room, I sent Clara to stay with a neighbor for fear he would hurt her, too. He never touched our son.” No, Maggie thought, he did not touch Dick, but he treated the boy so abominably that Dick shook whenever his father entered the room, and I had to hold him to stop the trembling.
“It appears he did strike Clara,” Mary said. “I saw the bruises.”
“That was later.” Maggie stared at the tea in her cup, remembering that once a wealthy woman had given her a tip for finishing a dress ahead of time, and she’d taken Dick and Clara to a tea shop for cakes. She smiled to remember that Clara had stuffed her cake into her mouth, while Dick had eaten his in small bites to make it last. She realized now that the generous woman was Mrs. Whitney. “This is very good,” she said, putting down her cup.
“Louise requires the best—for herself,” Mary said with a laugh. “Isn’t that nice for us tonight?”
Maggie swirled the leaves in the cup. “We lived like that for a long while. I would have moved, but my ladies knew where I was located, and I was afraid they would not follow me to a new address. Jesse visited on occasion but did not stay long with us. I think he had another woman, and the truth was, I hoped so. I wanted him to keep away.”
“Did you consider divorce?” Mary asked.
“Oh, no. Jesse would have taken the little ones from me for spite, and who knows what he would have done with them. My business would have suffered, too, and I had to feed the children. My customers would not care that my husband hit me, but they would be shocked if I were a divorced woman.” She paused. “Besides, Jesse told me he would kill me if I ever left him, and I believed him.”
Maggie was quiet for a moment. It was painful to go on, but still she continued. “My son got sick. I think he had pneumonia, or maybe typhoid. You remember how there was rain and hail and such cold in the fall that people stayed in their homes and did not go out. I had made several dresses, but the women did not send for them since, due to the weather, many parties had been called off. So I was not paid, and money was scarce
. I had to choose between food and fuel. I knew we would starve if we did not eat, so I purchased bread.”
For a time, Maggie did not go on. She stared out the window into the darkness, remembering. She remembered that the rain had mixed with the soot on the outside of the windows, making black streaks down the panes. She had sat with her sewing in dim light that came through the glass, her hands stiff with the chill. Clara was wrapped in quilts in the rocking chair, numbed by the cold. The boy lay on the bed, his head hot with fever. Maggie wanted to tend him, to rub his head with cool water. But one of her clients had demanded she finish a dress in time for a party. The garment had been completed the week before, but the woman, a Mrs. Fletcher, decided she did not like the sleeves and wanted them removed so that she could display her diamond bracelets. There would be no extra pay for the additional work.
Maggie had had to leave the children behind when she went to the Fletcher mansion for the final fitting. A neighbor had promised to look after them, but when Maggie returned the woman was drunk, and Dick was screaming from the fever. Maybe if Maggie had been there, Dick would not have gotten worse, but how could she have stayed? There would have been no money if the dress had not been completed. Mrs. Fletcher, at least, paid her bill on time.
“Mrs. Fletcher told me her maid would pick up the dress,” Maggie said. “The maid was that girl Winny, the Irish one with the red hair we saw at the church.”
Mary smiled. The two had discussed the other women who had signed up for the trip, and they had both thought Winny was among the nicest.
“Winny saw how tired I was and said she would watch Dick and Clara while I napped. She did not have to get back for a time, because Mrs. Fletcher was not going to the party after all. I was so grateful that I did not argue and lay down and went to sleep. When I awoke, I saw that Dick was better, and Winny was rocking him in the chair. It was a brave thing for the girl to do, since she could have caught Dick’s fever. He was laughing, and I thought Winny must be an angel. She offered to stay longer, but I knew she would be missed by Mrs. Fletcher, and I said my husband would be there soon, although I did not expect him at all. As she left, Winny told me Mrs. Fletcher put ice on her children’s foreheads when they had fevers. I thought that was a good idea and went outside for it. The ice in the street was dirty, and I had to hunt for some that was clean. It took longer than I wished. When I returned to the room, Clara was sitting beside her brother, holding his hand. Dick was dead.” Maggie took a deep breath and stopped. She closed her eyes to hold back the tears.
She glanced over at her daughter, who was curled up on her pallet. Maggie remembered it all so vividly. She had wrapped Clara in quilts and set her on the bed to sleep, then held Dick in her arms, rubbing the ice over his head as if it could ease the fever of the dead boy. Tears ran down her face as she rocked him back and forth until the little body was cold. She could have taken him outside, left the body in the street, but she would never abandon him. She took Mrs. Fletcher’s money and paid for a proper burial. Then, with Clara in her arms, she made her way through the snow to her parents’ house and begged them to take her in. They refused.
“And so you came to the church,” Mary said, finishing her tea.
“Not then. It was sometime later. There is more,” Maggie told her, bowing her head.
“There is more tea, as well,” Mary said, when Maggie did not continue. “In fact, I believe there is enough that we can have a cup every night when Louise is in bed. She will not know until we are on our way to California that it is used up.” As she stood, she gripped Maggie’s shoulder, and Maggie clutched her friend’s hand.
“Perhaps the rest should wait for another time. I do not wish to add to your sorrow,” Mary said, after she had added more tea leaves to the pot and poured in the water from the kettle.
“No, it needs to be said now.” Clara stirred and muttered something, and Maggie went to her, covering her with the quilt the girl had thrown aside. “I wonder if she dreams of it,” Maggie said but did not explain what she meant. She sat back down at the table and waited for Mary.
“Jesse came back. I had thought he was gone for good, but he was not. It was the week before the meeting at the church. When he discovered that Dick was dead, he was furious and knocked me down, accusing me of killing our son. Clara tried to tell him that it was not my fault and blurted out that she had held Dick when he breathed his last because I was not there. I said I had only gone for ice to help with the fever, but Jesse would not listen. He was like a madman. He hit me again and again until I could no longer feel the pain. I think I passed out. When I came to, I saw him on the bed with Clara. He had beaten her, too. You saw the bruises. He had pushed up her dress and was using her as he would a wife.” Maggie turned her head to the side and covered her eyes with her hand. “I cannot say more.”
“You do not have to,” Mary said, reaching across the table and putting her hand on Maggie’s arm. “I know what animals do.”
“He is indeed an animal. His own daughter,” Maggie whispered. “I could not imagine such a thing. Clara was crying, and he slapped her and told her to be still.” Maggie stopped to wipe tears from her eyes. “I told him to stop, and he said I was jealous. Jealous! How could he? I went as mad as he was at that, and I grabbed a poker and slammed it down on his head. I did it again, maybe twice more, until he was still.”
“And you left then?”
Maggie shook her head. “I was horrified at what I had done. I went outside and hailed a hack and took him to the hospital.”
Wordlessly, Mary poured more tea and set Maggie’s cup in front of her. The two were silent until Mary asked, “You say you do not know if he is dead?”
Maggie shook her head. “Three days later, two policemen came to see me. They asked what had happened. I should have told them the truth, but I could not. I said Jesse had beaten me, and I had defended myself. One of the coppers, the older one, asked what I had done to deserve the beating. Had I said something to him? He even asked if I had burned supper. I replied that Jesse was angry because our son had died, that he blamed me for it. The man said that explained it. He told me I’d had no cause to hit Jesse, that it was a man’s right to beat his wife. He said I ought to make it up to him.” She paused. “I could not tell him what Jesse had done to Clara. I could not shame her.”
Mary struck the table with her hand. “The beast! It is all right for him to beat you, but not all right for you to defend yourself and your daughter?”
“I suppose that is the law.”
“And what did the other copper say?”
“Nothing. Not then, anyway. He returned a day later. He was by himself. He said that Jesse was in a bad way and that if he died, I would be charged with murder. He told me to take Clara and hide somewhere.” Maggie gave a little smile. “I thought he would want something of me for his help, but he did not. In fact, he said, ‘My sister’s husband, he sometimes…’ He did not continue, but I knew he meant the husband beat his wife, too. When he left, he handed me a dollar and said he wished he had more to give me.
“I did not know what to do. The next morning, I packed as much as I could and took Clara, and we roamed the streets. That was when I noticed the broadsheets about the California venture. I had seen the sheets before, had read them, but until that moment I did not think that I would be one of the women to sign up. Perhaps God was speaking to me then, was showing me a way. I had thought I might rent a room in another part of the city or perhaps leave Chicago, but I did not have the money. Besides, I feared Jesse would come after me.”
“And will he?”
“Oh yes, if he lives. He may be looking for me even now.”
“And so you go to California to look for another husband, even though you still are married.”
Maggie looked up, shocked. “I had not thought of it that way.”
“Perhaps he is dead,” Mary said.
Maggie turned her head to look at Clara. “God willing,” she said.
Four
>
May 9, 1852
St. Joseph, Missouri
Never in her life had Maggie seen so many wagons, not even at midday on Lake Street in Chicago. She watched the throng of emigrants and their canvas-topped vehicles swarming along the banks of the Missouri River at St. Joseph. Wagons and prairie schooners drawn by horses, mules, and oxen were lined up, waiting for the ferry to take them to the far side of the river. People were in a hurry. It was late in the season to depart for the gold fields. The ministers had hoped to leave earlier, but they had been caught up in the myriad of details that planning the trip required.
Maggie pointed to the painted wheels on the wagons and asked Clara which color she liked best.
“Blue,” she replied. “No, yellow. Yellow is my favorite color. Like the sun.”
Maggie smiled, remembering that Dick had preferred red.
Drivers, impatient at the delays, cracked whips over their teams as they inched along. Women and children walked beside the wagons, dodging the animals and riff-raff. A driver cursed, incensed that someone had shoved in line ahead of him. He and the other driver swore at each other over the sounds of cattle and horses and the howls of two dogs that were fighting to the death. Maggie, gripping her daughter to keep her out of the traffic, hoped Clara did not notice the swear words but thought it unlikely the child would get to California without picking up some of the profanity.
Peddlers called to her, naming their wares. One sold tinned oysters and sardines. “Last chance till California,” he said. Maggie ignored him but was tempted by the woman who offered loaves of fresh bread, although she would not waste her money buying one.
She had had just twenty dollars when she signed up for the California trip, but now she had a great deal more, thanks to Mary. Not long before the two women left, Micah had told his sister he would not sell her half of the farm so that she could go larking off to California.
“I did not tell you to. Three hundred dollars, enough for Maggie, Clara, and me, will do,” Mary said.
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