Sophronia subsided with an effort. “I have heard much about your city. It is rough around the edges, I understand.”
“Around the edges, and straight to its core. My family was among the first to settle there, when it was nothing more than a muddy hillside and a few lean-tos built from cedar branches. I’ve watched Seattle grow, and I’ve only feared for its future as it has expanded.
“You fear I’ve come east looking for women of ill repute—you needn’t look surprised, nor try to deny it, Miss Brandt. I’ve heard every accusation and assumption already. But believe me when I tell you, there is no need to look outside Seattle for sin. There are ten men for every woman in Seattle, and nearly every woman is a working lady … if you understand my meaning. The few women of real character are married already—most of them came to the city already wedded to their husbands. With no prospects for courtship, no hope for respectable futures, the men of my town are content to descend ever further into vice. Drinking and gambling will soon turn the place into a sinkhole of immorality, I fear—one from which it will never recover. Unless the men of Seattle have reason to hope for something more.”
“And we are to be that hope.”
A thrill of confirmation raced along Sophronia’s limbs. Indeed, this was why the Lord had denied her love, withheld the companionship and security she so longed for. She was being preserved for a great mission—set apart for this important task. The very morality that had so isolated her in Massachusetts was to be her standard, her banner. She would march into Seattle and bring righteousness to that untamed land.
“I pray that you and the rest of the women will bring the influence Seattle so desperately needs,” Mr. Mercer replied.
“And how are we to find husbands? Have arrangements already been made?”
Mercer chuckled. “No, no—God preserve me, no! There are so many men hungry for a good wife, I never could have found enough women to meet that demand. As it is, I’m woefully short of my most conservative estimate. It will be up to you ladies to sort through the men Seattle has to offer, to consider their suits and entertain their courtships, just as you would do at home. It’s my hope that each one of you will find love and happiness with some lucky man of my city—for despite the grim picture I painted, Seattle has more than its fair share of good men, willing to give up sin and vice for the sake of a good woman.”
“I wonder that some of these ladies had to leave Lowell at all to find love and happiness.” Sophronia gazed out at the city, carefully arranging her features to hide her anxiety. Well did she know that she was likely the only woman in Mercer’s expedition who had exhausted all possibility for love in Massachusetts. “It makes a person suspicious of their motives, their characters …”
“I won’t bring you to the West against your will, Miss Brandt. If you have any misgivings, about Seattle or your fellow travelers, or about me, now is the time to act, before the ship sails. It’s not too late to go back to Lowell. Life in Seattle is not easy, and the work will be hard—but rewarding in the end, I pray.”
Sophronia lifted her chin in a display of courage—but her mind was already made up. Seattle offered a great work in the name of the Lord, and she would be true to her purpose. At last, all the disappointment and pain of her failed courtships made a kind of divine sense. No force in Heaven or on Earth could dissuade her from going now.
The ship sounded its loud, hollow cry—so sudden and close it made Sophronia and Mr. Mercer both start in surprise. The engine in the Illinois’s heart boomed to life. With a loud creak and a slow, rhythmic slap, the paddle wheels began their ponderous turning.
“Last chance to return to Massachusetts,” Mr. Mercer said.
But Sophronia only smiled in reply as the ship pulled slowly away from New York.
The Illinois was not long out of the harbor before the journey grew rough. March was not the friendliest month for sea travel; the waves were hard and relentless, the ship’s deck pitched unmercifully, and the constant, rhythmic thrum of the engine—the numbing slap-slap-slap of the paddle wheels—sent an endless vibration through the ship’s bones that made rest next to impossible. Before the first day of the voyage was through, even Sarah Gallagher had lost the optimistic bloom of her cheeks. Not one of the women had bargained for an adventure quite like this.
Sophronia, who was the most experienced with sailing, fared well enough, though her patience was thin and frayed. But several of the travelers grew quite ill. Hardly an hour passed without one or another of Mercer’s women wobbling from her cabin across the cold, spray-covered deck to empty her porcelain pot over the ship’s rail. Most of the girls adapted to the constant sway and lurch of the waves within a day or two, and the plague of vomiting eased. But a few remained bedridden, moaning and heaving, trapped in disoriented misery.
To Sophronia’s surprise, it was Dovey—plucky and hardy though she seemed—who fell sickest of them all. She didn’t see the girl emerge from her cabin once, and the other women of Mercer’s party took turns seeing to Dovey’s needs.
On the fifth day of the sailing, as Sophronia lay reading her Bible on her bunk, an urgent tap sounded on the cabin door. She found Josephine outside, her face drawn and pale—with the strain of sea travel, Sophronia wondered, or with fear?
“Dovey is terribly ill,” Josephine said, her voice cracking with weariness. “We’ve all done everything for her that we know to do, but … nothing seems to help her.”
“I can’t imagine what I might do to help,” Sophronia replied.
“You know ships, don’t you? You know the sea. You said your family sailed. And you know how to treat sickness of the stomach. I remember—back at the train station, you told me—”
“But I’m not a doctor, Josephine.”
“You’re the only one of Mercer’s party who hasn’t fallen ill. You’ve more experience with this boat business than any of us. Please, Sophronia—come and help Dovey.”
Josephine’s worry was so plain that Sophronia relented, just for the sake of Josephine’s nerves. She followed the older woman down the narrow, inner hall between cabin doors and squeezed with her into Dovey’s crowded quarters. Catherine Stickney, slender and rather nervous by nature, perched on a small, rickety stool beside Dovey’s bunk, holding the girl’s limp hand. She looked up as Sophronia entered, and her pleading eyes were dark-ringed with the remnants of her own recent bout with seasickness.
“Oh, Sophronia,” Catherine said, “is there anything you can do for her—anything at all? The poor girl—so young and frail!”
Frail was the one thing Dovey was not. Sophronia had expected to find Dovey sitting up in her bunk, rolling her eyes at her friends and dishing out her typical sauce. But to her surprise, Dovey lay flat and insensate, her dark curls plastered to her forehead by sweat. She was clad only in a stained chemise, and through its grimy folds her body looked too small and thin. Her eyes were sunken, the lids an alarming shade of violet-blue; her lips were cracked and raw. She shivered faintly.
Sophronia felt a pinch of fear. Was this something more than a bad case of seasickness? Fever, perhaps? Lord preserve us! It will spread like wildfire on a ship.
Sophronia mustered her calm. The stench of vomit—and worse—was thick inside the cabin. The girl was dehydrated—severely so, after days of vomiting—but it was surely nothing more dire than that.
“Brace up, girls.” Sophronia gave Catherine and Josephine a reassuring smile. “She’s worn herself out with all the heaving, but if we can get her to keep down a few sips of water, she’ll be all right.”
“We can’t,” Catherine nearly wailed. “We’ve been trying to keep her watered for days, but she heaves up anything she swallows down. Oh, I’m terribly afraid she’ll die!”
Josephine clutched Sophronia’s elbow; she could feel the other woman’s hand trembling. “I don’t know what to do, Sophronia. I’m afraid that if we can’t get her to drink—and to keep it down …”
Tears shone in Catherine’s eyes. She lifted
Dovey’s pale hand to press it against her cheek. Dovey gave a weak moan and her dry lips twitched, but she said nothing.
She very well may die, if she cannot drink. A hard lump rose in Sophronia’s throat, and she swallowed it down before it could turn to tears. Dovey might be unpleasant, and Sophronia’s dislike for such a wicked, amoral creature was as natural as breathing, but she could not call herself a Christian if she weren’t moved by the sight of suffering. Perhaps it’s not only my mission to Seattle that will atone for whatever wrongs I’ve done—that will earn me the love I so crave. Perhaps the Lord wants me to humble myself and care for this hardheaded girl, too.
She nodded, ready to minister to this wretched child if God required it. “Josephine, come with me. Catherine, you must stay here with Dovey until we return.”
Sophronia had packed plenty of dried ginger for her own use—a must-have for sea travel—but even with the rough seas of early spring, she had found little need for the stuff. One could never predict whether seasickness would strike; Sophronia had learned the truth of that long before James Gooding had carried her heart away. Back in her own cabin, with Josephine looking on, Sophronia rummaged through her trunk until she found the packet of ginger amid her ample stores. She opened the packet and poured a few of the small golden nuggets into her hand.
“Brew a dozen or so of these into a strong tea,” she told Josephine. “I’ve a few porcelain cups in here somewhere; I’ll give you one. You’ll need to hold the cup over a candle flame, I’m afraid—there’s no reliable way to keep it brewing in these rough seas, so you must monitor the process yourself. But once the cup begins to steam, the ginger should do its work.”
“It will stop her vomiting?”
“If God is willing. It acts quickly, and should put a stop straightaway to her nausea. We’ll know after the first cup whether it will work or not.”
In the dim confines of the cabin, Josephine looked at once more stoic and more afraid than Sophronia had ever seen her before. Her hazel eyes darted down to Sophronia’s open trunk, and at the sight of all the goods on display—plump sausages in their waxy white casings, six rounds of hearty bread still soft beneath their crackled crusts, and even little pots of strawberry preserves and honey, their lids clamped shut by metal springs—Josephine’s lips thinned in a worried frown.
“How well was Dovey eating?” Sophronia asked cautiously. “Before the sickness, I mean.”
Josephine’s eyes welled, and she shook her head in defeat. “Not well. The poor girl brought no provisions of her own, and she has been sharing mine. I … I brought what I could from Lowell, but it was barely enough to keep my belly full, let alone hers, too.”
Sophronia clicked her tongue. “Josephine, you cannot deprive yourself of food. You’ll fall ill, too.”
“I already have.”
“It’s a wonder you recovered, then, and didn’t end up like Dovey.”
“But I couldn’t let her go hungry, Sophronia. She’s only a girl.”
“Exactly.” Sophronia drew herself up and folded her arms tight below her bosom. “I told you both back in Lowell that she was too young for this journey. But you insisted she was under your care! The poor child should be back home with her parents, not withering away on a ship.”
“The one place Dovey should not be is back home with her parents. Each of us left Lowell for good reasons of our own. We all hope to find a better life in Seattle. That’s as true for Dovey as it is for me—and for you, despite all your talk of this mission from the Lord.”
Sophronia sniffed at Josephine’s outrageous assumption. “My mission to save the wayward souls of Seattle is all the motivation I need.”
Josephine folded the packet of ginger carefully. “Thank you for the medicine,” she said evenly. “I know you’ll pray as hard as the rest of us that Dovey will pull through.”
Josephine turned for the cabin door, but before she could open it, words tumbled from Sophronia’s mouth. “Wait. You need food—you and Dovey both.”
The older woman glanced back in surprise, and Sophronia could feel her own startlement writ large across her face. She hadn’t intended to say any of this, and her sensible side still muttered that Dovey would be better off sailing north to New York, not south toward Central America. But her heart was moved to pity—for Josephine and for Dovey—and Sophronia knew that no matter how she might try to armor it with righteous ideals and rigorous morals, that soft and gentle heart would always rule her spirit.
“Take some of my food,” she said, still hugging her body with her slender arms. “Share it with Dovey. Once she’s sipped on the ginger tea for a few hours, the poor girl will be ravenous.”
“It’s very generous …” Josephine shook her head, wide-eyed and dazed. “But Sophronia, I can’t.”
“You certainly can, and you shall.”
“I took responsibility for Dovey—I took her under my wing. I can’t ask you to—”
“You aren’t asking. Yet I am insisting. You’re in need, Josephine—both of you. We must never be too proud to accept help when we are in need.”
“But I can’t take what you offer on … on charity.” There was a sudden hardness to Josephine’s voice so entirely at odds with the deep, fearful vulnerability in her eyes that Sophronia stepped closer to the other woman, drawn by a desire to examine her. Josephine pressed her lips together and stared back, a display of strength—and Sophronia saw that for all her coddling of the hoyden Dovey, Josephine was, in her own way, as idealistic as she. And as proud, she admitted to herself, though she knew well that pride was a sin.
We’re more alike than we are different, she wanted to say. That makes us sisters of a sort. There is no charity between sisters—only love, only giving.
But the lump had returned to her throat, and those sentimental words refused to come. Instead, Sophronia offered, “If it makes you feel better, I’ll allow you to sew for me in exchange for the food.” She reached out and brushed the tamboured linen of Josephine’s dress. “This is very fine embroidery. Can you do the same for me?”
Josephine’s self-deprecatory chuckle filled the cabin. “It may be fine, but it’s terribly outdated. This type of needlework fell out of style years ago, I’m afraid.”
“It ought to come back into style, then.” Sophronia smiled, and Josephine’s answering grin was wide and warm.
“You have a sweet, kindly smile,” Josephine said. “You ought to let it show more often.”
Sophronia tossed her head. What nonsense. Even stuck on a ship, she had no time or patience for sentimental talk. She led Josephine back to Dovey’s cabin, then sent Catherine Stickney off to fetch a bucket of water. It was time Dovey’s soiled clothes were washed. Sophronia helped Josephine peel the dingy chemise from the girl’s body, then, together, they tucked her beneath a wool blanket.
“Bring that candle here,” Sophronia said. “I’ll show you how to brew the ginger tea.”
“I’m so glad of your help, Sophronia.”
“It’s only my Christian duty, to ease the wretchedness of the world.”
“All the same, I’m glad to have you beside me.”
Sophronia patted Josephine’s hand, then guided it to the candle flame, showing her how to hold the cup just so, how to move with the rolling of the waves so that the heat never left the cup, until its steam released the soft, subtle perfume of ginger into Dovey’s cabin.
“Together,” Sophronia said, “we’ll bring this girl around.”
And may the Lord grant that we can bring her around, Sophronia prayed soberly. Her salvation as well as my own may depend on it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ASPINWALL
The coast of Panama appeared as slowly, as softly, as a dream through a low, humid mist. Dovey watched from the rail of the Illinois as the horizon turned from the blue-gray of the sea to a brilliant streak of emerald green. Even on the open water, far outside of harbor or mooring, she could sense a change in the air—a certain thickening, a palpable de
nsity, as the canopy of trees on the shore held the moisture low in the air. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply in relief. The shore was far off yet, but Dovey could smell it—or perhaps she only imagined she could—the warm-green, soothing spice of damp leaves and rich, firm ground.
It would be a blessing to set foot on land again, and no mistake. This voyage had already amounted to more than Dovey had bargained for, and it was only half done. She was clearly not cut out for sea travel, but she would rather be here, on the rolling deck of the Illinois, still shaky and weak from her days of illness, than standing at the altar with Marion Stilton.
She breathed in another deep lungful of thick, warm sea air. Now that I’m gone, she wondered lightly, how will Father get along? What will he do about his closed mills—his dead business?
He would manage well enough, Dovey felt sure. He had always been a resourceful man, and though he seemed to attach great importance to shepherding Dovey through life—enough to threaten her with marriage—she felt sure he wouldn’t dwell on her going. Not once he found some way to revive his business.
Mother was far more troubling to Dovey—Mother and the boys, still off at war. She could write to her mother, Dovey knew, once she was settled in Seattle and her days of travel were behind her. But it’s likely I’ll never see her again—never set eyes on her, or hear her voice, or hold her hand.
She’d been a fool to run off so impulsively. And to sell Mother’s jewels for the travel fare—that gnawed at Dovey’s conscience, stabbing her heart with a pang that never quite abated.
I should have stayed and reasoned with Father. I could have found some way to calm him, to make him give up his mad plan of packing me off to the altar.
Even as she thought it, Dovey knew it wasn’t true. John Mason was the most single-minded, bull-headed specimen of blustering masculinity the Lord had ever created. Once he’d set his mind to marry Dovey off, he’d have seen the deed through to its end. Dovey had had little choice, and she knew it. But was her mother’s love the price for her freedom and self-respect? She feared her mother’s reaction, once she learned what her only daughter had done. Mother is a kind soul, but she’s so terribly proper. She won’t understand why I’ve run away—the pain it would have brought me, to marry the Stilton boy. Her dismay might even be great enough that she would disown Dovey. That threat carried a powerful sting.
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