“‘I appeal to high-minded women,’” she quoted quietly, so as not to draw attention, “‘to go out into the West to cultivate the higher and purer facilities of man by casting about him those refining influences that true women always carry with them; to build happy homes and let true sunlight shine round the hearthstone.’”
True sunlight. How long had it been since she had felt that warmth and brightness? She had lived without happiness for so long. Lived? Josephine choked back a scornful laugh. The shadow under which she dwelt couldn’t rightly be labeled a life. A mere existence was all anyone might call it. Josephine was getting old—she had recently turned thirty-five—but still she prayed that it wasn’t too late to find happiness, to actually live. Since her first perusal of Mr. Mercer’s letter, Josephine had felt her shroud of shadows lift. Bright, warm light spilled down on inner vistas, and her future looked as vast, as emerald green and rich, as she imagined Washington Territory to be.
Josephine’s mind was quite made up. It had been many years since she had last worked as a teacher, but all the same, she was resolved to apply for the position. She, unlike the flap jaws of her church society, would take this A. S. Mercer at his word; she would not assume wickedness where none had yet been demonstrated. And even if he proved to be a wicked man … well, still she would manage, if the Lord was willing. She would go to any length—and travel any distance—to find the peace she longed for.
Josephine slowed. She had drawn very near the Merrimack River, swollen from the rapid thaw. Its crisp, earthy scent filled the street, driving back the everyday odors of pipe smoke, horse dung, and the bitter, chemical bluntness of industry. She found office number 108 and peered at its small window. Affixed to the inside of the glass was a sign—and though it was neatly written in a clear, steady hand, Josephine could see that it was made from nothing more elegant than plain brown butcher’s paper. It read:
ASA SHINN MERCER
OF SEATTLE, WASH. TERR.
INQUIRIES WELCOME
“This is it,” Josephine said briskly, though she spoke to nobody but herself. The moment had come. Now she would reach out with a strong, steady hand and seize a new life. Now she would make herself anew—shape herself into a woman who could hold her head up high. She felt rather tempted to get the jitters, but she breathed deeply as she folded up the scrap of newspaper and returned it to her pocket. This was not an advantageous time for flying all to pieces. Washington Territory was waiting for her. All she had to do now was keep her wits about her, and inquire.
Josephine entered the small office without knocking. She stopped short just over the threshold, blinking as her eyes adjusted from the brightness of a clear March day to the dim, cramped interior, lit by the sallow glow of a single, old-fashioned gaslight. A large desk dominated the space. Its surface was nicked and pitted, and here and there, in the chips along its edges, the warm, honey hue of freshly exposed oak showed against the lustrous, dark patina of age. Several neat stacks of paper stood to one side, of equal height and spaced precisely. A man rose from a squealing chair with prompt grace; he bowed over that broad desk with a fluidity that took Josephine aback. She stood speechless, still holding the open door with one hand.
“Good afternoon,” the man said. He was dressed smartly in a dark velvet coat with wide lapels, with a waistcoat and bow tie of matching green. His curly black hair was fixed in three elaborate waves—one over each ear, and one arching high at the crown of his head, giving him an altogether dandy appearance. His eyes were a bold, demanding shade of blue, and one had the smallest suggestion of a cast—a feature which only added to his considerable presence, rather than diminishing his charm. Though his beard was thick and full, Josephine could see that his cheeks were smooth, the corners of his eyes unlined. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-four or -five.
“Good afternoon,” Josephine replied. She glanced around the small office. Its walls were unadorned, and their exposed red brick gave off a faint odor of mildew. A file cabinet stood in one corner, topped by a dusty, copper-lusterware vase that held nothing, not even a few twigs of winter greenery. A John Bull hat, banded with silver ribbon, lay beside it.
“I am looking for Mr. A. S. Mercer,” Josephine said after a pause.
“You have found him. Please, come in.”
Josephine turned away from him as she shut the door, the better to master the surprise that had, she felt certain, blanked and paled her face. The gossip mills of Lowell had painted Mr. Mercer as a rake; Josephine had envisioned him an old, leering man, with grasping, claw-fingered hands, an accompanying reek of tobacco, and an unpleasant laugh—perhaps even drooling a little. Even with this unpleasant expectation, she had been thoroughly prepared to make her escape to Washington Territory. If she had to suffer long-distance travel in the company of a profligate, she was ready to withstand that trial. To be confronted instead by this vision of A. S. Mercer, fresh as a schoolboy and smart as a lord, left Josephine fairly dumbfounded.
Mercer gestured toward a narrow bench that stood opposite his desk. Josephine edged her hem and crinoline up with her heel, moving as warily as if she confronted a viper, then sank down on the bench. The horsehair crackled against her petticoats, and she was conscious for the first time in years of her shabby appearance. She had donned her very best dress—a soft, lavender-and-brown muslin that she had tamboured herself many years ago. But now, faced with Mercer’s high style and obvious youth, Josephine realized just how dated and moth-eaten she must look. It’s a wonder the women of Lowell haven’t dropped dead at the sight of me already! She didn’t even have a snood to gather up her hair—she had rolled it into a bun, which pulled back her rather thin, plain brown hair severely. She had searched for her snood that morning as she’d hastily made ready for her trip to Merrimack Street. But it had vanished without a trace. A good many of her personal items had disappeared of late—especially if they had any valuable embellishment, like the tiny seed pearls that had adorned her snood.
Josephine arranged her embroidered skirt along the bench as Mr. Mercer resumed his seat.
He said, “How may I be of service, Miss … ?”
“Carey,” she supplied quickly, glancing out the window. “Josephine Carey.”
“Miss Carey.”
“I’ve heard you are looking for women to move west, to Washington Territory. I’ve heard it’s teachers you want.”
“Yes,” he said. But a flash of doubt moved across his face, drawing down his dark brows for an instant and shadowing his eyes before he could replace that hesitation with studied calm. “You are a teacher?”
“I was. Until very recently,” she hastened to add. In truth, it had been more than ten years since Josephine had taught. But, she reasoned, whether an event was recent or in the distant past was all a matter of perspective. “I am ready to go west. I was most inspired by your rebuttal in the Times, and shame on them for slandering you so!”
Mercer’s smile lit his blue eyes with an impish twinkle. “If I’d been an old man, I think the newspapers—and even the rumor circles of Lowell—would have passed me by with very little comment. But young as I am, I believe they suspect that I plan to steal women away for my own gratification. Perhaps they assume I’m setting up a Turkish harem.”
“But it is teachers you want?”
“Indeed. We’ve plenty of young men in Seattle, all of them high-minded and thirsty for knowledge. I founded a university there some years ago, but I’m sorry to report that the current administrators lack the faculty to staff it well.”
A university! The mere thought fairly took Josephine’s breath away. She had loved teaching little children, back in the days of her youth, when she had still felt hope for a bright future. She had often dreamed of loftier goals, too—of founding a preparatory academy or tutoring college scholars. But she had never allowed herself to hope for an opportunity to teach at a university.
Mercer noted her sudden eagerness. “Have you any experience with college students, Miss
Carey?”
“No,” she admitted, “but I have plenty with younger students, including those studying for entrance examinations. And I’m certain I could be useful to you, Mr. Mercer. If you’ll only give me the chance—”
His quiet, rather bashful laugh brought Josephine up short.
“I appreciate your interest,” Mercer said, “but I’m not certain you’re quite right … that is, that you are entirely suited … to the, er …” He dropped his eyes and gave a helpless little shrug. His cheeks flushed a surprisingly bright shade.
“But I am an excellent teacher, sir,” Josephine said quickly. “That is what you’re looking for, isn’t it? Women to educate all those young men, to impart knowledge, to influence them toward good acts and higher ideals.”
“Yes, yes,” said Mercer rather dismissively. He drew a deep breath, and Josephine had the impression that he was steadying his nerves. “Teachers—yes. There will be work for any woman who comes west with me, if that is what she desires. Well-paid work, too. Seventy-five dollars a month—that’s what we’ve settled on for a teacher’s salary.”
Josephine folded her hands in her lap, pinched the skin between thumb and finger to keep her eyes from popping, and prayed fervently that Mr. Mercer did not see. Seventy-five a month! It was nearly twice what a man with a trade could earn in Lowell. Only the mill owners made more—back when the mills had been running at full capacity. Josephine had only sought a way out of Massachusetts, some distance between an old life and a new. But with seventy-five a month, why—she could found an academy after all!
“That is very generous,” she said calmly. “I’d be happy to take a position as a teacher in Washington Territory, if you’ll have me.”
Mercer’s lips compressed within the thicket of his beard.
“What’s the matter?” Josephine smiled as she spoke, struggling to fend off her rising desperation—a prickling, goading force that was, moment by moment, issuing ever stronger commands to leap up from the bench and shriek in wordless panic and helpless desire. “Have you already found all the teachers you need?”
He gave a short, self-deprecating laugh. “No—indeed, no! It’s only that … well, Miss Carey, I’m afraid it’s a rather indelicate subject, and I know you ladies of Lowell are virtuous. How can I say it gently? I don’t wish to offend you, please understand—”
“Better out with it,” she said, more brusquely than intended. She had expected far more enthusiasm from this western stranger, who, after all, faced a rather onerous task. Public opinion was not in Mercer’s favor. He had not found Lowell bursting with eager teachers, leaping at the opportunity to be carted off by a stranger to the very edge of the frontier. Josephine’s dream of a better life, so newly kindled, was already guttering and smoking, on the verge of being snuffed out for good.
“What I am truly seeking,” said Mercer with slow, deliberate care, “is brides.”
Josephine leaned back on her bench, startled to silence. Suddenly the delicate meaning, so carefully stitched into Mercer’s rebuttal to the Times, became mortifyingly clear. All that talk of hearth and home—why hadn’t she perceived it at once? She had always considered herself as a sensible, clear-thinking woman, capable of reading between the lines. But just like that, she had allowed her own enthusiasm—her desperation—to blind her to the truth.
“Brides,” she said, when she had recovered command of her tongue. “I see.”
“And while I have no doubt that you are quite a capable instructor, Miss Carey, I question whether the men of Seattle will … that is to say, whether you will—”
“I am not as old as I look.” Josephine sat up straighter.
“I see. You are … er … if I may ask … ?”
“Thirty-five.” The moment the admission was out of her mouth, Josephine bunched her fists in her skirt. She was gripped by the urge to tear the bun from her own head. Why hadn’t she given a younger age? She could pass for twenty-nine. Or thirty-one, at worst. Desperation clawed at her chest, thrashing in a frenzy as she felt her last hope for happiness slipping beyond her grasp. She blurted, “I am still capable of …” She cleared her throat, looking away from Mercer’s intense, blue stare. “Of bearing. Pardon my indelicacy, but let us speak of the real business at hand.”
Mercer’s face flushed again—Josephine felt a reciprocal flame on her own cheeks—but his smile was relieved. “Let us, indeed,” he said. “You are unattached, then, I take it? That is to say, if you were to receive a proposal … if you found a man of your liking …”
Mentally, she amended his words. If your greatly advanced age doesn’t send all the Territory’s bachelors running for the hills. But she nodded with instant acceptance. “I would be very pleased to marry, if I were to find a man of my liking in Seattle.”
She hoped Mercer took her renewed blush for a virtuous woman’s embarrassment at such open discussion of marital matters.
“In that case, Miss Carey, I shall be glad to have you.”
Relief and joy surged in Josephine’s middle, so suddenly and with such force that she could only stare at the man in awe.
“There are two conditions,” Mercer said cautiously. “First, we must leave tomorrow morning—quite early, I’m afraid. It gives you little time to prepare, I know, but I have already made arrangements for our transportation. If you have any business you must see to before you can go—”
“None,” she interrupted, shaking her head vigorously. She blinked a mist of grateful tears from her eyes. “I shall be ready whenever you are.”
“Very good. The second condition is … well, I’m afraid it’s rather an expensive trip. We must travel first to New York, and from there we’ll take a ship south to Aspinwall, in Panama. From Aspinwall, we travel by rail to Panama City, and by sea once more up the Pacific coast.”
“I understand. What is the cost?” Whatever it was, she was resolved to pay it, one way or another. No obstacle would prevent her from leaving Lowell with this man.
“Two hundred and fifty dollars,” said Mercer.
A chill crept up Josephine’s spine. It was a heavy price. But the money was accessible to her—she knew just where she might obtain it. “Very well.” A cool calm settled in her gut. “I will have my fare in hand by tomorrow.”
Mercer jotted a few lines on one of his papers—a list of suggested items for Josephine to pack. Then he added the time and place where the party would assemble, at the train depot on the southwest edge of town.
“Please see that you arrive on time,” he told her. “If you are not present at this precise hour, I will have no choice but to assume you’ve changed your mind.”
“I understand.” Josephine folded the paper neatly, then tucked it in her pocket with the clipping from the New York Times.
Don’t worry, A. S. Mercer, she told him silently. I’ll keep a vigil by the tracks all night long, if need be. I will not miss that train for any inducement the Devil may dream up.
Mercer rose as Josephine did, and he extended his warm, youthful hand across the desk. Josephine grasped it tightly—her lifeline, her rescue—and smiled into his vivid blue eyes.
“Best wishes for a good journey,” Mercer said. “And my best wishes to Seattle’s future bride.”
Josephine made her way back up Merrimack Street, striding with invigorated purpose. The two papers in her pocket crinkled faintly with the swing of her skirt, and she could still feel the shape of Mercer’s palm against her own. The sensation burned and itched on her skin—an uncomfortable reminder of the falsehoods she had told.
But she had no time for guilt. The afternoon was fast fading; she had only a few hours to prepare. She was resolved to be ready, cash in hand, when Mercer called for her. Josephine would be waiting on the train platform in the early morning light, ready to leave this life far behind.
CHAPTER TWO
A WORKING GIRL
Dovey stood beside the great parlor window, watching the sun sink toward the broken, hard-edged silhouette of Lo
well’s quiet skyline. The bright afternoon had faded into a dejected evening, dimming the late-winter sun behind a gathering veil of violet-gray clouds. Lowell was eerie in its peace—ominously unproductive. Only a few of the tall, narrow smokestacks released their plumes into the sky. In the weak light of the brief winter sunset, Lowell’s haze of industry mingled with a gathering drift of clouds. It looked, to Dovey’s eyes, like a ragged shawl draped around a widow’s shoulders—or like the tarnish on a long-forgotten silver ornament, once sparkling and fine, now worn, dull, and dark.
She shifted on her feet, wiggling numb toes inside her stiff, pointed boots. Her legs were sore from tramping up and down the long rows of the millhouses. She had inquired at every business still in operation whether there was any work for a girl of sixteen. But each foreman had turned her away with short, impatient words. Lowell’s streets were packed with mill girls, drifting at loose ends, all of whom had lost their places when their employers folded. And even the rawest, youngest mill girls moping in Lowell’s alleys had far more experience than Dovey.
It was hopeless, and she knew it. She would not find work. She had searched for more than a week now, and each day her luck was more rotten than the last. Even if a position came open—and who was mad enough to give up steady work?—the job would certainly go to someone who already knew how to mind the spinning jennies, not to a neophyte like Dovey. She would only waste an overseer’s time with tedious training.
She stared down at her hands. They were soft and white, nothing at all like the calloused, work-chapped paws of the girls she had met on the streets. The sight of her idle hands filled Dovey’s stomach with a thick, bubbling shame. For the first time in her young life, she was embarrassed by her former wealth and comfort, and she realized with a prickle of tears that she was almost relieved those times of ease had come to an end—almost. She clasped her untroubled hands behind her back, where she didn’t have to see them—where she would not be confronted by her own maddening uselessness.
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