Beyond the Mapped Stars

by Rosalyn Eves

  A maid turns up a short time later with a gold dress spilling over her arms, and Alice leaves to change. The maid helps me undress, then fastens a bustle about my hips before buttoning me into the gown. The gold color complements my skin and hair, but the wide neckline exposes more of my shoulders (and the freckles across them) than I’m used to. The padded bustle adds depth to the folded swirls of skirt, but it makes me feel off balance and wider than usual. I’m not quite sure how to walk in such a thing. Mama would say the dress was a worldly extravagance—but I watch myself in the mirror as the maid does my hair, and I look like a different person. Like someone brave. Like someone who could study the stars.

  In all, I feel both pretty and wicked.

  There isn’t room for all of us to fit into the carriage, thanks to the full skirts the ladies wear. So Will, Alice, and I pile into the carriage, with Mr. and Mrs. Stevens promising to follow shortly. Will is in high spirits, having either forgotten or chosen to ignore the conversation at dinner.

  Alice wears the most stunning dress I have seen yet: a deep blue silk with long, flowing lines, a seamless cut from shoulder to hem. It’s the latest European style, she says, fitted through the waist to the hips, with the heavy layers of the skirt drawn up artfully behind her with only a very small bustle. It makes her already slender figure elegant and regal, and the color makes her skin glow. I do not know how to sit in the carriage without squashing both my bustle and my gown, and so I spend the distance to the hotel uncomfortable and rigid, holding most of my weight off the seat.

  By the time we reach the hotel, the whole of Sixteenth Street is crowded with carriages of people arriving for the dance. The Trans-Oceana is a beautiful structure: four stories, with a roof that doesn’t come to a point all at once, but has two slants to each side. Inside, a half-circle desk of dark walnut fronts a wall with matching key racks. An ornate wooden box hangs on the wall near the desk, with a series of numbers on the face and small arrows beneath each number. As we walk across the marbled flooring of the entryway toward the desk, a small bell jangles and one of the porters rushes out of the lobby into the hallway beyond it.

  “Grandpa has the best of everything in his hotel,” Alice tells me. “That’s an annunciator—if guests want anything, they have only to push a button in their room and it rings a bell at the desk. The arrows tell the porter which room rang the bell.”

  I marvel at the technology, which seems almost akin to magic. If I’m given a chance to work here, I shall inspect how the buttons in the rooms communicate with the bell.

  We don’t go immediately to the ballroom; instead I follow Alice and Will a short distance down the hallway to an office, where a man with nearly white hair and brown skin sits behind a desk, working through a ledger. Alice introduces me to her grandfather.

  Mr. Lancelot Davis greets me gravely and kindly before teasing Will for his fine clothes and giving Alice a kiss on her cheek, telling her she looks lovely. I wonder if he always works so late, or if he is also here for the dance.

  Alice explains to him that I am looking for work, and we settle that I will come in mornings through the week of the eclipse. He doesn’t seem to mind that tonight I’m a guest and Monday I will be an employee, and I like him all the better for it.

  “I don’t think I could employ you full-time, but I own another pair of hands will be helpful,” Mr. Davis says, shaking my hand to seal our deal.

  Finding work in Denver has proved easy enough, but I fear the next task will be more daunting: to get through a dance with strangers in an unfamiliar city with my dignity intact.

  chapter sixteen

  Saturday, July 20, 1878

  Denver, Colorado

  Nine days until eclipse

  The Trans-Oceana doesn’t have a formal ballroom, but the dining room has been cleared of tables and chairs, and gas lamps burn brightly around the room. The aroma of roses surrounds us the instant we step inside, drawn from garlands strewn liberally about the walls and blooms placed in vases at tables around the edges of the room. Food and drink weigh down the tables, and chairs line the walls for those not inclined to dance.

  Butterflies jitter in my stomach. At home, a dance like this would be a pure pleasure, but I am not sure the energetic jigs and reels I know are the same kind danced among such fancy folk.

  I tie a dance card around my wrist with a crimson ribbon, and run my finger down the list of dances: Plain Quadrille, Nine Pin, Polka Redowa, Gladiator, Pop Goes the Weasel, Gallopade, Varsovienne….Most of these I do not recognize. What if someone signs my card for one of those unknown dances? What if no one does? What if I knock someone over with this bustle?

  Drawing three deep breaths, I quell the rising surge of panic. I’m here at Alice’s request; I do not have to dance. And who knows? Perhaps one of the visiting scientists will be present tonight.

  Alice leads me around the room, introducing me to her friends. The crowd here is mixed: mostly white folks, some black, but nearly all seem to be well-off, and everyone likes Alice. I wonder if this mix is normal for Denver, or just reflective of the Stevens family.

  I step carefully behind Alice, conscious of the bustle swinging with my steps and the train dragging behind me. Among the guests, I meet Henry Wagoner, an older black man, with chin-length white hair and a full white beard. Alice tells me that he is a friend of her grandfather who now works as a clerk for the Colorado legislature, and that they met in Chicago, where Mr. Wagoner worked on setting type for an abolitionist magazine. “If it weren’t for Mr. Wagoner,” Alice says, “Grandpa would never have come to Denver to make his fortune.”

  Mr. Wagoner winks at us. “All Lance’s best ideas came from me. Well, excepting your fine grandmother, God rest her soul. Marrying her was all his doing.”

  A couple of Alice’s friends sign their names on my dance card, which relieves my fear of not being asked but raises a new fear. I peek at my card after they have gone, praying I do not make a fool of myself.

  Eventually, the music starts up, from a four-piece orchestra in a corner of the room. A caller stands near them, announcing the name of the first dance, a quadrille. And just like that, the dance begins. At home, we open with a prayer and a grand march, with the community heads promenading around the room in time to music. Here, there is no such warning.

  I could have used the warning, as Alice and I take our places on the floor with our partners, in a square made of four couples. I am not ready for this dance, not sure of my steps, or the bustle that weighs me down. At least my gloves hide my sweating palms. My partner, a tall boy with sandy blond hair, bows to me and I curtsy back, then curtsy to the partner at my right. The caller, bless him, calls out the steps as we go, and though this quadrille is not quite the sort I am used to, I find I do know several of the steps and if I am not especially graceful, I am not disgraceful either.

  We dance a Nine Pin next, which Alice tells me is a newly fashionable import from the East and works well in Colorado, where there are more men than women, since it requires an extra gentleman, who takes his position inside the circle of dancers and then turns each lady in succession. Whenever the music stops, whichever gentleman is without a partner must take his position inside the center of the circle. There is some confusion in our group when the music stops, and much laughing, and another layer of my anxiety flakes away. I am not the only one who doesn’t know all the steps.

  During a break in the dancing, Mrs. Stevens joins me, a glass of wine in one hand. “I hope you’re having a pleasant time,” she says. “Have my children been taking care of you?”

  “It’s a lovely party. Alice has introduced me to so many kind people. She seems very popular.”

  “Good,” she says, though she frowns a little. Her eyes skim the crowd until they settle on Alice, dancing with a young black man. “I do worry that she sets people at a distance sometimes. A girl her age should be thinking of set
tling down, not talking of studying art in distant schools. Her grandfather and I have worked hard to build this hotel, hoping that Alice might enjoy a social position that we never did. But she seems determined to have none of it.”

  I don’t know why Mrs. Stevens is telling me this. Perhaps the wine is more potent than she realizes. I’m relieved of having to answer when Alice waves at me after the dance ends, beckoning for me to join her. I excuse myself and cross the floor toward Alice.

  Alice gestures to her father, who stands a few feet away talking to a slim, dark-haired woman, and says to me, “There’s someone I think you should meet.”

  “Ah! Dr. Avery, you remember my daughter, Alice?” Mr. Stevens smiles at us as we approach.

  I wonder if I have heard him right—Doctor Avery? I study the woman doctor with new interest. She is a little above my height, with intelligent eyes and lines about her mouth that suggest she smiles a great deal.

  “Of course I remember Alice,” Dr. Avery says. “I sat for one of her paintings only a few months ago. She’s very talented.” Her voice is cultured, smooth—the voice of an eastern transplant, not someone who’s grown up in these mountains.

  “She’s a fine little artist,” Mr. Stevens says. Does he notice how the glow in Alice’s face dims at his diminishing words?

  Alice says, “Dr. Avery, may I introduce my friend Elizabeth Bertelsen? She’s come to Denver from Utah for the eclipse.”

  Dr. Avery turns to me. “Have you?” A smile tugs at her lips. “What a curious coincidence. As it happens, I have a group of women astronomers who are coming to stay at my house for the eclipse. Miss Maria Mitchell is an old friend of mine. Do you know of her work?”

  Maria Mitchell? Truly? For a moment I can only gape at her, until Alice squeezes my hand encouragingly. “How could I not? She’s the finest astronomer in America.”

  Dr. Avery’s smile deepens. “Would you like to meet her? She arrives tomorrow, but I should think by Monday afternoon she’ll be sufficiently rested for company. I know she’s always keen to encourage girls in the study of science.”

  I give my enthusiastic assent, and our little party breaks up. I turn to Alice. “Did you know? About Miss Mitchell?”

  “I might have heard something,” Alice admits, grinning.

  “I don’t know how I can thank you enough.”

  “You can sit for me,” Alice says, so promptly that she must have been planning this already. “For my portraits of the West series? I haven’t got a Mormon yet.”

  Something about how she phrases that, as though all Mormons are interchangeable, chafes at me. But for her kindnesses—introducing me to Dr. Avery, giving me a place to stay—I could forgive Alice anything. Still—I look at her doubtfully. “Are you sure your viewers won’t be shocked?”

  “What if they are? Besides, that red of your hair is lovely. I’m itching to catch it.”

  I flush, pleased. “I’d be happy to. Only say when.”

  Still glowing from his most recent turn around the floor, Will saunters up to us. He’s not sat out a single dance, and from his partners’ expressions, I gather they enjoy the exercise nearly as much as he does.

  “Having a good time?” Will asks me.

  “Very much so!” I say, thinking of Dr. Avery’s invitation to meet Miss Mitchell.

  “But you haven’t danced with me yet,” Will says. “How can you say you’re enjoying yourself? We must fix that at once.” He demands to see my dance card and scrawls his name beside the Varsovienne. I look up in dismay.

  “I can’t dance that with you, Will. I don’t know the steps. I’ll tread all over your feet, I’m sure of it.”

  Will only grins at me. “Then I will wear those bruises as a badge of honor.”

  “You can’t wish me to make a fool of you in front of all your friends.” What I mean is, you can’t wish me to make a fool of myself in front of your friends.

  But Will doesn’t seem to understand my subtle plea, and his charm is impossible to resist, so when the next set forms and Will extends one white-gloved hand to me, I follow him to the middle of the floor. His smile is wide and sparkling as he takes in the energy in the room. He’s a born leader, this boy, with more charm than is good for him.

  Turns out, the Varsovienne is a kind of waltz that opens with a polka step. I’m distracted by Will’s nearness, by the sharp piney smell of his soap, and the warm, firm touch of his hand to my back. Alice whirls past on the arm of a dark-haired boy.

  I look around the room, the couples swirling past us. “It feels as though we might be at the center of the universe.”

  “Here?” Will laughs. “Denver is well enough, but it’s a veritable backwater compared to some of the big cities in the world. New York; Washington, D.C.; Paris.”

  “You’ve been to Europe?” It might as well be the moon.

  “Once,” Will says. “It’s a little staid for my tastes. I’d rather go west—see the islands of the Pacific, or China, or India. Where’s the sense in traveling somewhere you already know about? I want to travel to places I don’t know.”

  The dance shifts, speeding up, adding a series of quick, graceful steps that I struggle to follow. As we pass by the door into the hall, I catch a flash of movement in the doorway, a face and silhouette so familiar my heart seizes for a moment. Samuel.

  Surely I’m only imagining him. I crane my head to see better, but as my attention lapses from my steps, my feet tangle in the full skirts of my gown. There’s a brief flip of terror, and then I am falling, pulling Will down with me.

  Will turns his body, so that he hits the floor first and I land atop him.

  Will is laughing, his face so close to mine that I could count the freckles on his cheeks if I wanted. So close I can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, smell the lemon and sugar on his breath.

  Face burning, I try to scramble to my feet, but the bustle makes it nearly impossible to move. I have to wait, humiliatingly, for Will to stand, to pull me to my feet. My dress may be pretty, but it makes me helpless as an infant. Maybe that’s the point.

  Alice rushes toward us, unsuccessfully trying to suppress the amusement that twists her lips. But I can hardly attend to her, or to Will, who is trying to ask if I’m hurt.

  I’m still looking around the room for a brown-haired boy with a wide forehead and kind eyes. Samuel said he had business in Denver—but why should the thought that Samuel might still be in Denver make my heart pound so hard and fast? We scarcely parted as friends.

  Even so, when I can’t see anyone like Samuel in the room, I brush aside Will and Alice’s questions and surge through the crowd toward the door. The hallway is empty when I reach it, and I dash—well, waddle, my bustle swinging behind me—toward the lobby.

  A cheerful melody floats behind me from the ballroom. The lobby is nearly empty. I’m about to turn back to the ballroom, when I spot a young man standing at the desk, talking to the clerk.

  “Samuel!”

  The man looks up, just as Alice slides to a halt beside me. “Is everything all right?” she asks.

  It is Samuel. He’s wearing the suit he usually wears to church, with a curly-brimmed derby I’ve never seen on his head.

  “Yes,” I say. “It’s all right. Just a friend from home.” The conflicting emotions surging through me at the moment might give the lie to my statement, but Alice doesn’t need to know that.

  Samuel leaves the desk to join us. His eyes flicker over my borrowed finery, but his mild smile doesn’t change. “Good to see you, Miss Bertelsen. I didn’t recognize you.”

  I’m not sure how to read this. Is it a good thing, that I don’t look like myself? His formality suggests perhaps it is not.

  Alice nudges me, and I flush. I’m forgetting my manners. “Alice, this is my friend Samuel Willard. Samuel, Alice Stevens. Her grandfather owns this hotel.”


  “Pleased to meet you,” Samuel says, doffing his hat. “It’s a fine hotel. I’ve been staying here the last couple of days while I’m in Denver on business.”

  “And how do you find Denver?” Alice asks.

  “The crown jewel of the plains, or so I’m told,” Samuel says, a familiar grin curling his lips. “The city’s pretty, the women”—he tips his head toward Alice—“even prettier.”

  Alice laughs. “Very prettily said, Mr. Willard.”

  “I do try,” Samuel says with false modesty. He casts a swift, glinting look at me as if to say, See? Some people appreciate my wit.

  Alice smiles. “Excuse me, I must go—I’m engaged for the next dance. But you are welcome to join us, Mr. Willard.”

  “Only if you’ll dance with me,” Samuel says, quick as that.

  Alice laughs again. “It would be my pleasure.”

  Samuel watches as Alice walks down the hall, a tall elegant figure in a softly swishing dress. I fight down a strong desire to poke him. When Alice disappears into the ballroom, he turns back to me.

  His eyes drop from my face to my chest and then flash up, his cheeks flushing red. I wish I had a shawl or something to cover my shoulders. A gown like this didn’t stand out in the ballroom, but under Samuel’s scrutiny, I’m reminded that no one at home owns a dress like this. No one at home would expose so much of her shoulders or bosom in public.

  I brace myself for judgment.

  “You look beautiful,” Samuel says. “Like you’re wrapped in sunlight.”

  Maybe it’s not all bad that I don’t look like myself.

  “How did you come to be in Denver?” he asks. “I thought you were in Wyoming with your sister.”

  “I was. I helped Rebekka at the delivery, and then she decided I looked unhappy and helped me get to Denver for the eclipse. I’m staying with the Stevenses—Alice’s family.”

  “I’m glad you’ll get to see the eclipse. I know it’s what you wanted.”