Something Worth Doing

by Jane Kirkpatrick

  He laughed and she swallowed bile. “Thirty dollars, Mrs. Duniway?”

  “Is it—I thought it a reasonable amount.”

  “No, I won’t loan you that.”

  “I’m good for it.” Her face felt hot with embarrassment.

  “Your reputation says as much. No, I won’t loan you thirty dollars.” He adjusted his glasses. “But I will loan you twelve hundred dollars to buy stock in San Francisco.”

  “That’s . . . stunning. Thank you for your confidence in me.”

  “And why not. You’ve a good business head, Mrs. Duniway, and you can see what women are interested in, now that the war is over and it’s safe to spend again. Prosperity. Yes, I think you are right at the cusp of it, and I’m happy to be of assistance.”

  She barely remembered the steamship ride back. She told Ben that evening and his proud grin pleased her no end. “Oh Ben, he believed in me.”

  “Smart man.”

  “I’ll head south tomorrow and make my purchases. I’ve already paid for an ad in next week’s paper. Clara’s ready to stand behind the counter.”

  “And I can too,” Ben said. “I’ll wear my best coat and collar.”

  “It won’t tire you?”

  “Got myself a stool to sit on, but I’m taking steps with only one cane.”

  She hugged him. “That’s so good, Ben.”

  When she started to break away, he kept his arms around her. “I only want to hold you close for a moment. Kiss my happy retail magnate.” He did kiss her then, and she let herself sink into his arms.

  “I’m not a magnate yet.” She pushed herself away, though he still linked his arms around her waist. “Only on the journey. I hope. One I need to pack for.”

  “Just so long as I’m on the voyage with you.”

  “You always will be. Not literally, of course. You’re not up to a steamship ride yet.” She patted his vested chest. He always takes such good care of his person. Tidy. “I’m not sure I could do any of this without you.”

  She wished his progress made her as giddy as her success with Jacob Mayer, but she was genuinely pleased he wanted to help and pushed himself to do it. They were a team, though not one exactly matched.

  Abigail made the trip to San Francisco, bought her twelve hundred dollars’ worth of baubles and beads, fabrics and finery, and returned to sell them. She paid Mr. Mayer back within three weeks and returned to California with a three-thousand-dollar advance from the financier and came back to sell those items too. She’d been at the front of a buying boom and was in the right town to make that happen. Only Lincoln’s assassination had slowed things as the country mourned.

  “Did you read Harvey’s essay about Lincoln published in the Oregonian?” Kate asked. “It’s quite moving.”

  Even Abigail had to admit to the passion and the expression of grief brother Harvey so beautifully conveyed.

  Then Maggie, their faith-loving sister, died that fall, and Abigail was back to wearing black.

  They’d taken in eight-year-old Annie, as Maggie’s children were brought into their aunts’ folds. Harvey, with more means than any of them, had not taken on his nieces or nephews as wards. Where is his generous Scott heart?

  “That husband of hers,” Abigail complained to Ben as she packed for yet another buying trip to California. “He took Maggie on that swampy boat in and out of coastal ports selling bread and basics, putting her right in the path of consumption. And then did nothing to help her when she became ill. He didn’t even let us know. Just allowed her to suffer.” She sat at the edge of the bed, noticed a sock stuck between the mattress and the footboard, and grabbed for it. “She hadn’t wanted to go with him to the coast in the first place. How I wish she’d stood up to him.”

  “She believed a woman must listen to her husband. A God-given requirement of a good wife. You know that.”

  “But there are other ways to interpret that Scripture. We are all made in God’s image, so we are all equal, though different. There’s that message too. Her word means as much as his, it does. More, because frankly she’s smarter than George Fearnside. Was smarter.” Her death was one more on the heels of Lincoln’s assassination. It was nearly too much to bear.

  But then, Maggie’s children were now under the spell of their aunts, away from their father’s influence. Maybe it was good that women would have more to say over the little girls and not have them exposed to the restrictive views of women’s roles that their father held. Or that Harvey did. Harvey had told sister Fanny that he didn’t approve of Abigail traveling so much for business, that it wasn’t a woman’s place. She’d confront him at some point, but it was so like him to complain to another sister rather than speak to her directly. He wouldn’t like at all her decision to have another woman present at the store while she traveled—a woman who would also share the financial load. With Ben’s consent, she’d taken on a female partner.

  “A prominent family,” Ben commented. He straightened a small area of men’s hats that Abigail had decided to purchase to see if they would sell in a woman’s shop.

  “They’re good Republicans,” she said. “She’s operated a millinery out of their parlor on Elm Street so knows that trail all right. She has the social contacts, and as you know, my social skills aren’t always the best.”

  Ben laughed. He sat behind a glass case, his body filling out again as he became more mobile and active and didn’t need the medication so much. Nor the canes. But the pain came and went, ebbing and flowing like the tide. He’d wince bending to pull a carrot from the garden. That could put him down for hours.

  “With a partner, I can be away from here now and then with fewer worries.”

  “But the children are devoted to you and really like your being around more. I want to start training again, Abigail. I don’t want the accident to keep me from getting ‘back on that horse,’ so to speak.”

  Abigail was grateful Ben had improved, but it also meant he had more ideas and sought greater independence that forced her into new arguments to get him to accept her “plans.”

  She resented the weight of responsibility of being the primary supporter, but she also liked holding the reins. As he got better, he’d have to make different accommodations. “I suppose we could use the extra income if you’re successful. But it’s risky too. You could get hurt again.”

  “And you could get hurt traveling so much, alone as you do. I should go with you.”

  “One of us has to stay with the children. And I’m only gone for a few days at a time.” She reset a feathered hat on one of Clara’s wire head mounts. “All right, let’s give it a try. Maybe a day or so a week?”

  “Aunt Abigail, can I help in the store?” Annie’s voice broke into their discussion.

  “May you help,” Abigail corrected. “Of course. What would you like to do?”

  “I can draw pictures to put in the window.” She pointed to the glass behind a sitting area where friends could wait during a fitting. She showed her aunt a drawing she’d done.

  “Very good, Annie. Let’s see what you can do for a newspaper ad. Would you like to try that? Clara, can you find lead and wrapping paper?”

  “I would.” Annie danced her way out of the room, the first time Abigail had seen the girl smile since her mother’s death.

  “Training needs to be daily,” Ben said.

  “What? Oh, yes, we were speaking of your getting back on that horse, so to speak.”

  “I’ll spend the mornings.”

  “Yes. All right. Mornings.”

  The new partner would increase sales. She would share the costs—but also any profits. Business or personal, there would be a price to pay. Relationships were so unpredictable, and she longed for certainty—certainty she could control.

  The family gathered to attend Harvey’s wedding at the end of October to Elizabeth, a quiet soul who adored him as she gazed at him with admiration in her eyes. He was quite a catch, Abigail decided, though his domineering opinions about everythi
ng meant Elizabeth might have a difficult time expressing hers—especially if they differed. The woman didn’t say much, so the sisters weren’t sure what she thought about issues of the day. Still, she knew Latin, which probably attracted Harvey to her in the first place. She did say she found it quite remarkable that Abigail traveled so much when she had young children still at home. I wonder where she heard that? “Steamships are so full of . . . strangers.” Elizabeth dabbed at her full lips with her napkin. “What if something should happen?”

  “I find travel quite invigorating,” Abigail told her. They were at the breakfast Abigail hosted for the couple at the Albany Hotel when they returned from their honeymoon. Abigail was rather pleased they had the finances to put on such an elegant breakfast for them. She was as prosperous as Harvey was. In a way. At least she wanted him to conclude that.

  Rain fell, but it didn’t prevent Kate and John from arriving from Canemah. Fanny and Amos sat at the far end of the table, ferns behind them moving gently as the servers passed by. Harriet and William sat across from the Captain and Kate, while eighteen-year-old sister Sarah sat next to Ben. It was the first time they’d gathered since Maggie’s death, as Fanny hadn’t been able to make Harvey’s wedding. She’d been struggling with morning sickness.

  “One simply has to let go of having total control when traveling,” Abigail said. “There are opportunities for serendipitous moments on a steamship or even a stagecoach.”

  “I never thought of you as liking the unpredictable,” Harvey said.

  “I’m quite adaptable.”

  Harvey coughed and raised his eyebrows toward Ben.

  “One has to be,” Abigail continued. “That’s what wives and mothers do, adjust to the whims and fortunes of their men. Let that be a warning to you, Elizabeth.” She raised her fork to emphasize her point.

  “Seems to me you do more than adjust.” Harvey leaned back to allow the server to place bacon strips onto his plate. “I see you planning the destination, setting the sails, and if the captain would let you, organizing the wheelhouse.” Harvey smiled at her, more indulgent than critical, but she took afront anyway.

  “I prefer to be the captain, it’s true. But I know how to be a good crew member too.”

  “She runs a tight ship.” Ben passed the rolls around. “And she’s the hardest working woman I know of. Fingers in lots of pies.”

  “A sign of a life with misplaced purpose perhaps. Being a dutiful wife and mother is a higher calling than indulging in the business world, rushing off to San Francisco, writing letters to the editor exposing yourself to public criticism, leaving poor Ben to manage the home fires you ought to be tending.”

  “Poor Ben does fine,” Abigail said. “Don’t you, Ben.”

  “That I do. I’ve got a matched team ready for sale. Not the pair that got away from me. Someone else finished them. Wish I could have.”

  “You’re back at doing what you love. Good for you, Ben.” Harvey turned to his new wife. “He talked of little else when we were at the mines together. Well, horses were second—to Abigail and the children. He both loved and loathed your lengthy letters, Sister.”

  “Loathed?” She looked at Ben.

  His cheeks above his reddish beard had turned a shade of pink. She had been hard on him at times, begging him to come home but not until he struck gold; telling him stories of how the children missed him while listing needs they had and hoped he could meet.

  “I told him to overlook your punctuation,” Harvey said. His usual downturned lips lifted in his moment of jest—at someone else’s expense, Abigail noted.

  “It was missing you all,” Ben said. “Your letters made me sad and glad at the same time.”

  “Well,” Abigail said. “Words have power. I won’t apologize for that. Nor should anyone who writes of truth and heart, even with bad punctuation. Some of us had the benefit of early education, and some of us were sickly and worked our fingers to the bone.”

  “Have you settled into your Portland home, Elizabeth?” Kate said. “It’s a lovely area of the city.”

  Catherine, ever the diplomat.

  “Yes. We have. And it’s so much closer now to Harvey’s new appointment.”

  “What’s that, Brother?” Sarah asked.

  “I’ve been named the editor of the Oregonian. Mr. Pittock liked my essay on Lincoln so much he made the offer. And I accepted.” He beamed.

  “You’re the editor?” Harriet said. “Congratulations. That’s quite a feat.”

  “It is indeed,” Ben said. Congratulations were sent across the table.

  Abigail bit off her biscuit, staring at Harvey, who smirked at her. She didn’t see a newly examined lawyer, head of the Portland library, and now editor of the Oregonian. She saw her little brother putting himself above her just because he’d been born a boy.

  “If I’d had primary schooling and a college education, I’d have been a newspaper editor by the time I was twenty-one, not waited until I was twenty-seven.”

  “Abigail,” Fanny chastened.

  “I didn’t realize you aspired to be a newspaper editor,” Harvey said.

  “I do. And I will be one day.” She took a deep breath. “But congratulations anyway, Harvey. You’ve done the Scott name proud. And who knows, you might be publishing one of my essays one of these days.”

  “I look forward to that. Make sure you double-check your punctuation.”

  NINETEEN

  An Editorial Option

  1866

  _______

  Abigail waited at the landing called Steamboat Point in San Francisco, her ship having rattled by swamps still visible in a city infused with gold and silver riches. Porters carried trunks off, and others dragged luggage and who knew what all on board, followed by passengers dressed in the finery Abigail hoped to find duplicates of and purchase. She was anxious to do her buying, read the News of the World and other local newspapers, and be treated to supper in the ladies’ dining room of the Cosmopolitan Hotel. A porter called a cab for her—drawn by a white horse that made her think of Ben—and when the porter helped her up, she saw that another passenger waited inside.

  “Jenny Scott? Can that be you?”

  “Shirley Ellis? Oh, what a wonder!” Her mind flashed back to the girl who had pierced her ears. A slender young woman smiled back at her, though with eyes that showed more strain than the sparkle she’d been known for on the trail across.

  “Jenny Duniway, I mean. What are you doing here?”

  “I’m on a buying mission. Dress trimmings, threads, the latest in hats.”

  “Of course you are. I remember you writing about your millinery. What a gift our paths should pass in person once again. Let me look at those earrings.”

  Abigail turned her head.

  “Still look fine.”

  “They’re my favorite, though I’ve a dozen pair now.”

  “How’s Ben? Your children?”

  “Thriving. What are you doing in San Francisco?”

  “I moved here from Sacramento. I’m teaching and just took a friend to the ship. You’ll stay with me, won’t you? We’ve so much to catch up on.”

  For a moment Abigail longed for that quiet supper at the hotel. She liked solitary times when her thinking became clearer, and after supper, she’d enjoy the time to write, free of distractions. Still, seeing Shirley again reminded her of good times the girl—the woman—had brought during hard trials. And she had yet to hear what Shirley thought about the novel she’d sent her.

  “Yes. I’d be pleased.”

  Shirley hugged Abigail as she settled onto the leather seat. She was surprised to feel tears in her eyes. Shirley’s presence brought back memories of her mother, the journey across the continent, and her youngest brother’s death too. Shirley had helped them all out of their sorrows, made her and her sisters laugh despite themselves. She was also reminded of how glorious it was to have an old friend. They chatted and caught up, and it was as though no time had ever separated them.
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  “You’re limping,” Shirley said when they stepped out of the cab.

  “Sometimes. After sitting a long time. It’s my joints and the strain of childbirth. I think the latter is passed now.” She smiled. “Too busy supporting the family to have time to make it larger.”

  “I’d love to meet your children. And Ben.”

  “Come and visit but wait until spring or summer. The rains are wretched, the only thing I dislike about Oregon.”

  “We have our share too.” A wet December fog near the Bay had them pull out their umbrellas when they reached the brownstone building where the driver stopped. “I don’t suppose the rains do anything to soothe your bones either. Here we are.” They climbed the stairs to the third floor. Shirley opened and closed her umbrella to knock the rain off, then unlocked her door, and they entered the tiny apartment, nicely furnished. The umbrellas were popped into the stand.

  “It’s lovely.” And it was, with no clutter, no children’s toys lying about, no business dealings mixed in with family. Abigail set her carpetbag down. She loved tidiness but couldn’t seem to manage it in her own life. A wreath of grapevines with peacock feathers accented with burgundy bows hung over the fireplace. “That’s gorgeous. Did you make it?”

  “Oh, no. There’s a collective, a group of women who make crafts to sell, to support themselves and their children. My women’s group helps them. Will you buy Christmas items this trip?”

  “Most seasonal items were commissioned before September. But if there are more of those, I might take a few back. They look so festive. Your entire apartment does.”

  “It’s big enough for our women’s gatherings. Now that the war is over, we can put our hearts and hands into being able to manage our own money, gaining property rights for women, achieving custody of our children.”

  “And voting.”

  “Oh, yes, the franchise. You wait. California will be the leader in the West getting women’s suffrage. We’re organizing. Maybe your next trip you can attend a meeting. There’s strength in numbers.” A daguerreotype of Shirley holding an infant sat on the sideboard. Shirley paused to look at it before she stepped into the galley kitchen. “Our efforts won’t be taken well by the men of California, and yet we have to win them over to get our way. We’re tightrope walkers balancing on a swinging rope.”