by Sydney Avey
Passengers lined up behind Nellie and began to push. Nellie released Opal and climbed aboard. On the landing, she turned and shouted over the din, “Telephone Jessie if you need anything.” She handed her bag to the porter, blew Opal a kiss, and entered the coach. Once inside, she found a seat by a window and drew the curtain across the pane. A large, matronly woman sitting on the aisle looked to be the type to discourage idle conversation. Good.
Nellie welcomed the long hours of solitude ahead of her. She peeked through the side of the curtain and watched Opal stand by the tracks until the last passenger boarded. When Opal finally turned to go, Nellie leaned her elbow on the windowsill, rested her head against the palm of her hand, and closed her eyes. This is good for Opal. She’ll be fine. God, let her be fine.
Lulled by the rhythmic jostling of the train, Nellie drifted in and out of sleep. She was awakened by the conductor who asked for her ticket.
“All the way to Butte, Montana.” He positioned his punch over her ticket and pronounced Butte with two syllables as he punched a hole in her destination. A chatty sort, he followed up with commentary. “Butte, Montana. A mine of opportunity for some.” He twisted the tip of his handlebar mustache. “A pit of toil and trouble for some others.” He winked at her and walked down the aisle.
I’ll make mine opportunity. Nellie chuckled to herself and settled back into her seat. Hours passed, and her peace was interrupted only when stops and starts jolted her awake. Whenever the train picked up speed and cantered through mountain passes, she pulled back the window curtain and peered out. Sheer joy spread through her being. If there was a fountain of youth, this was it.
I am forty-four years old today. I have never been on my own. Not for one moment! Nellie reached into the satchel that held personal items and the tools of her trade. She pulled out a special treat tied up in a red and white checkered napkin. Almost reverently, she unwrapped the indulgence she had purchased for just this occasion. It lay glistening on the napkin in her lap; a devil’s food cupcake smeared with thick buttercream frosting and topped with chocolate sprinkles. She had purchased two bakery cupcakes, leaving one behind for Opal to discover.
The first bite was the sweetest. Mama used to say that you can’t have your cake and eat it too. Then best to enjoy what you have while you have it. That’s what I say.
Nellie let the sweetness melt on her tongue, gathered every crumb from every cranny in the napkin folds, and dabbed the corners of her mouth with the napkin. When she finished, she looked up into the unsmiling eyes of the large woman sitting across from her.
“Was that good?”
Sourpuss. “Delicious.” Nellie turned her head toward the window and began to dream. What enjoyment life might hold for a progressive woman, gainfully employed in respectable work, able to travel through life on her own.
2 - The Miner’s Wife
2
The Miner’s Wife
Montana, 1906
Ten hours by train and a streetcar ride later, Nellie stood on the curb facing the Butte Hotel at the dinner hour. Downtown Butte was just as Judge Webster described. Electric streetcar tracks crisscrossed the boulevards. Horse and carriage rigs jockeyed with motor cars, clip-clopping past new hotels and restaurants—all this to serve the booming copper mining industry.
Exhaustion and hunger competed for her attention. Falling into bed fully clothed tempted her, but a short walk, a nourishing meal, and a bath would serve her better.
In her hotel room, Nellie splashed water on her face. “You can do this,” she lectured her tired reflection in the mirror. A swish of rose-pink lipstick and a smile put the sparkle back in her eyes. A brisk walk in the mild evening breeze to nearby Mikado Dining Hall restored her confidence.
The Nesbitt sisters owned and operated the fashionable restaurant. As instructed, Nellie asked to see Annie Nesbitt.
“I am Mrs. Nellie Scott from Spokane. Judge Webster sends you his greetings.”
“And more business, how delightful. I have the perfect table for you.” Annie signaled her sister. “Katie, please take Mrs. Scott to the section reserved for our guests who wish to eat a quiet dinner undisturbed.”
Nellie followed her hostess to the back of the dining hall where single diners relaxed over dinner plates, reading newspapers or jotting in notebooks. The only other woman dining alone kept her eyes on her plate as they passed. When Nellie was seated two tables away, the woman looked up and caught her attention with the merest smile and an almost imperceptible nod. Then she returned her eyes to her meal.
Nellie took note and trained her eyes on the menu and plates of food put before her. Between courses, she busied herself with her expense ledger. Three dollars a night for her hotel room, fifty cents for dinner; Butte was expensive.
When Katie brought Nellie the dinner check, she nodded in the direction of the single woman who was just finishing her coffee. “Mrs. Nora Hanley would like to know if you would care to walk back to the Butte Hotel with her.”
“Wh… how did she …?”
Katie laughed. “That’s where most women who are traveling alone stay. Our streets are safe, but we encourage women to walk together at night.”
Katie escorted Nellie to Mrs. Hanley’s table, and after brief introductions and pleasantries, the two women strolled back to the hotel. Time limited their conversation to a polite exchange about what assignments brought them to Butte. Mrs. Hanley talked about her work as an organizer for the Women’s Protective Union. Nellie wanted to know more about that.
In one evening, a whole new world opened to Nellie. Maybe it was time she joined a trade association. She determined she would put in her membership application to the National Shorthand Reporters Association as soon as she returned to Spokane.
R
The next morning, Nellie hired a horse and carriage to transport her to a small town outside Butte that housed miners and their families. The workers were predominately Irish, but Nellie read in a newspaper editorial that no smoking signs in the mines were written in sixteen different languages. Although knowledge of mining practices was not a job requirement, she had prepared herself for this assignment by reading everything she could about life in the mines.
Despite the enactment of laws to improve and monitor mine safety, fatal mining accidents were on the rise. Her assignment was to record an Irish miner’s eye-witness account of an explosion that killed six in a mining accident. Mr. McGregory’s testimony was part of an investigation into the practice of using unskilled immigrants to perform dangerous tasks.
Stepping down from the carriage, Nellie set her foot on the uneven surface of the rough road and wished she had invested in boots with thicker soles instead of such a fancy coat. She paid her fare and began her walk past a busy new housing construction zone. At the end of the road stood McGregory’s ramshackle dwelling, one among many destined for replacement as soon as its occupants could afford to move.
Nellie approached the miner’s shack, turning her head to take in the houses that shouldered each other on both sides. Children’s toys lay scattered in the vegetable rows scratched out of dirt patches in front of each house, but not this one. She squared her shoulders, removed a glove, and rapped on the front door. Quickly, she pulled her hand back and examined the skinned knuckle of one finger that caught on a splinter in the wood. A small scrape, really, but it produced a sharp sting that put her whole body on alert.
She was sucking on her knuckle when the door inched open soundlessly, and the moon face of a female shone against the darkness inside. The missus has taken care to oil the hinges on the heavy door, Nellie thought. The door opened just wide enough for the woman to come into full view. A tidy person blinked in the daylight.
“Oh. Are you …?” The woman clasped her hands together and searched for words.
“I’m Mrs. Scott.” Nellie stepped over the threshold and extended her gloved hand. “I’ve been sent by the court to—”
“Oh. Oh.” The woman stepped back and smoothed her
hands over an apron more stylish than serviceable. “My husband received a letter telling him to expect a representative from the court today, but I didn’t think … well, I didn’t think, did I?” She laughed and took Nellie’s hand in both of hers. “I’m Mrs. McGregory. I’m so pleased to make your acquaintance. Come in.”
Mrs. McGregory took Nellie’s coat and led her through the tiny parlor to a dining alcove. “May I offer you a cup of tea while we wait for Mr. McGregory to return from an errand?”
Nellie nodded, and her hostess busied herself lighting a burner under a copper teakettle and setting out two shabby teacups and saucers. Under these circumstances, one would expect the miner’s wife to be worn out as well, but that was not the case. Despite her pale complexion, the woman possessed a natural beauty that no amount of squalor could diminish: lustrous auburn hair, large green eyes framed with long lashes, ample curves admirably displayed on a well-proportioned frame. Tall women had every advantage. Nellie, always conscious of her tendency to gain weight, hoped not to be offered teacakes.
“I can’t imagine what is keeping my husband.” Mrs. McGregory whisked the teakettle from the burner. “I read the letter to him. I made sure he understood the importance of his deposition to the government’s case against the mine.”
Nellie traced a finger along a wrinkle in the stiff cloth that topped the small dining table. A crisp crocheted doily attempted to conceal a patch of yellowed fabric. Too much starch.
Mrs. McGregory poured the amber-colored tea at precisely the moment Nellie’s nose detected the scent of sulfur drifting through the open window. Hoping to dispel the odor of rotten eggs, Nellie drew the cup of steaming tea to her lips and breathed in the vapor. The mineral content overwhelmed any fragrance that the lemon balm tea leaves floating in rusty water offered. Nellie set the cup back on its chipped saucer and gazed around the walls.
The walls, absent the usual framed needlework or family portraits, featured fashion plates cut from The Delineator and Fashionable Dress magazines. Faded images of graceful women in feathered hats and ruffled skirts served as windows on a world the miner’s wife had likely never seen and more likely never would.
Mrs. McGregory sat with her hands in her lap, worrying the thin gold band on her finger. She followed Nellie’s gaze around the walls. “I am teaching myself fashion design.” She cast her eyes downward. “It is my desire to throw myself into work that will help me forget my great tragedy.” Her voice trembled. Raising a hand to the tatted lace trim attached to the plain collar of her dress, her delicate fingers played with the fine stitchery. “You see, my husband and I lost our only child, a boy I loved more than life itself.
For the next hour, Mrs. McGregory confided the grim details—a spooked horse, an innocent toddler, the collision of hoof and head. Nellie slipped her hand into the pocket of her black wool skirt. Her fingers searched for the delicately perfumed embroidered linen handkerchief she kept with her at all times. She pulled it out and dabbed the rosewater-scented finery to her upper lip, hoping to catch the thin trickle that either the sulfur smell or the sad story had coaxed from her nose.
Nellie looked around the room for a clock. Finding none, she reached into the folds of her skirt for the timepiece she kept on her chatelaine. What was keeping Mr. McGregory? Absently she asked her hostess what kind of work she hoped to find.
Mrs. McGregory perked up. “I wish to open a dressmaking shop.” She chattered on.
What makes her think she could do such a thing? A prick of conscience brought to Nellie’s mind the prairie girl she had been in her youth. She reprimanded herself sternly. Of course, this miner’s wife could achieve her dream. She could take in sewing, build a clientele, hang a shingle above the cottage door, but Nellie had no time to pursue this thought.
The front door swung open and through a cloud of dust stomped Mr. McGregory. Mrs. McGregory’s face turned white, and her hand flew to her throat, but Nellie laid her hand on the woman’s knee and then rose to her feet.
The miner swayed on his feet and blinked at Nellie. “Who’re you?” He narrowed his eyes at her.
Nellie stepped forward and put out her hand. “I am Mrs. Scott. You and I have an appointment to talk about the incident that has deprived you of work—a temporary condition, we sincerely hope.”
It took a minute for Nellie’s words to penetrate the whiskey fog that clouded the miner’s vision. His face reddened. His right hand began to rise to shake hers, but he jerked it back before it made contact. Digging into his pocket, he brought up a handkerchief and placed it against his pant leg. He rubbed his palm clean, returned the hanky to his pocket, and only then did he give Nellie’s hand a perfunctory shake.
“I’m pleased to meet you, ma’am.”
“Come sit down at the table with me, Mr. McGregory. Perhaps your wife would be so kind as to bring us both a glass of water.” Nellie returned to the table, pulled out a chair, and invited the miner to sit.
He looked behind him. His wife had moved silently to close the door and now stood leaning against it, her arms folded across her chest. “Get us some water,” he told her in a toneless voice. He coughed and took a seat, put his right elbow on the table, and leaned over it so close that Nellie had to fight to keep from wrinkling her nose at the smell of alcohol and sweat.
How often had John come home from an “errand” in this condition? With less excuse than this poor man. Nellie composed her face into a stern but kindly expression.
“Mr. McGregory, I have a set of questions that an attorney has prepared. Your testimony will help us understand the conditions in the mine that may have led to the deaths of six of your fellow miners.”
“It were the explosion what killed ’em.”
That was the longest string of words the miner put together during the next hour. Nellie’s questions met with stares and grunts, one- or two-word answers, head shaking, and eye shifting. It occurred to her that a court of justice two states away might be blind to the devil’s bargain miners had to make between their livelihood and their safety. If he spoke against the mine operations, what might happen to him? She set aside her list of questions and began to probe on her own.
After another hour of questioning, Nellie uncovered the source of the miner’s discomfort. Workers who spoke out went on a list of troublemakers. They were the first to lose their jobs in a slump. She put her notebook away and leaned back in her chair.
“Do you miss Ireland, Mr. McGregory?”
A light she had not seen before cleared his rheumy eyes. His native brogue began to play like a fiddle in the lower register. Gently she interjected a question or two here and there between the narratives of his youth. She asked about the lads who arrived weekly to take jobs in the mines. What skills did they have? What training did they receive? What jobs were they given? Memories of the old country and affection for his countrymen brought McGregory’s guard down, and he did what all good Irishmen do when they are in their cups. He told stories. On the record? Nellie wasn’t certain, but sure enough, she’d wrestled the truth out of her reluctant witness. The greenest of the new arrivals were offered the jobs that more experienced miners refused to do.
Anxious to get back to her hotel room and write up the stories the miner told, she thanked him for his time. “Now, Mr. McGregory, you take care of that wound so it will heal properly. I will write up my report for the court.”
The miner looked at the stump below his left elbow. He lifted teary eyes to Nellie’s face. “I are never going back in the mine, are I, missus?”
Oh dear. Now Nellie needed a drink. She turned to the miner’s wife, who had been silent for the last two hours.
“Thank you so much for your hospitality and the refreshing cup of tea.”
The woman rose to accompany Nellie to the door. Nellie slipped into her coat, and just before she stepped outside into the street, she took Mrs. McGregory’s hand. She lowered her voice. “You would be wise to seek work. I wish you much success in whatever enterprise you choo
se to pursue.” She squeezed the woman’s icy fingers. “I hope someday to see a shingle out for Mrs. McGregory’s Dress Shop.”
R
How did women with refined taste and obvious talent get themselves into such a pickle? Nellie’s head ached. Her skin itched. Had she been right to give Mrs. McGregory advice that was certain to have disruptive consequences? Men like Mr. McGregory did not like their women to work. She removed the jumble of clothes she had tossed into her valise and began to fold and stack each item back in her bag.
We all make mistakes. How far back would she have to go to face her first mistake? Of course, her hasty marriage was not her first mistake, but perhaps it was time to stop laying all the blame at John’s feet. The success of her budding career might depend on understanding her part in that failure.
3 - Marriage and Escape
3
Marriage and Escape
Kansas, 1879
Nellie stood before the preacher and married her father’s ranch foreman in a small Presbyterian church ceremony in McPherson. She was seventeen. He was twenty-nine. A rough and tumble sort, it was Canadian-born John Henry Scott who talked Nellie’s father into expanding the farm operation to include cattle shortly after he hired on. A wheat boom had restored what the locust had destroyed, and a season of prosperity had allowed the Carter family to build a modest ranch house. The mustachioed young man moved into the sod homestead the Carters vacated and into her father’s high esteem.
John was a new generation of ranch boss. He was younger than the men her father usually hired to manage the ranch, but rough and weathered in the way of men who spent most of their time outdoors. To his credit, he spoke well, and he always cleaned up before coming inside the main house. When he looked at Nellie, though, his brown eyes twinkled under wild eyebrows in ways that unsettled her stomach and made her heart race. She liked that he never called her “little lady” when he tipped his hat, but she didn’t know what to make of the saucy winks he gave her when her mother wasn’t looking. Certainly he could not be attempting to charm her the way her rubber-faced brothers hoped to win attention when they pulled faces at the girls at church. John was her father’s employee. And he was old. The very idea! What were her parents thinking when they pressed her to accept John’s proposal of marriage?