Mercer Girls

by Libbie Hawker

  “And what of the judgment of God?”

  Bill shrugged. “I haven’t seen much in my life that I can attribute to God—not with real confidence. No good fortune or affliction that didn’t just look like dumb luck, once I sat and really thought about it. I’m not afraid of the Lord’s retribution, Jo—not nearly afraid enough to let you pass out of my life.”

  He took her hand again. It was both warm and rough, and his touch was so familiar that it struck an ache deep in Jo’s chest. It was not the pain of loss, nor of thwarted longing. It rose up from a satisfaction so complete that it filled her heart to bursting. She trembled with the force of that agony and treasured the perfect beauty of the ache.

  Softly, Bill kissed her hand. “I can love you whether there’s a ring on your finger or not. Say you’ll come to the island with me. I’ll be sure you’re never lonely.”

  The delicate, quivering ache would not let her speak. She breathed deeply, and finally whispered, “I couldn’t live with you, if I agreed to go—if. I’d go as a teacher, and I couldn’t risk my position with the school on accusations of ill conduct. If I agree to go, I must have a place of my own. We must live apart, and no one must suspect …”

  “I’ll build you a home with my own two hands,” Bill said softly. “Nothing would bring me greater joy.”

  She nodded. “I need time to consider it all. I must think it all through before I can give you an answer.”

  Jo did have the best intentions to think the matter through. She knew it was not in a woman’s best interest, to trot off into the wilderness and take up a life of sin without dedicating proper contemplation to the plan. But as she watched Bill stroll off in the direction of the Jameson house, Jo’s cheeks burned with the suspicion that her mind was already made up.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  A WIDE SHOT AND A BULL’S-EYE

  Springtime’s lush, knee-high grass was so rank and abundant that it all but concealed the rutted track from sight. But Dovey was alert and avid; she had been on the lookout for the hidden lane since leaving Seattle’s town limits behind her.

  She reined Blue to a stop and fumbled in her saddlebag for the little map Virgil had sketched on a scrap of paper. Blue dropped his head into the grass and began grazing with a focus Dovey knew she’d have a hard time breaking. But one glance at her map confirmed it. She had found the property of one Mr. George S. Whistler: fisherman, sailor, and evader of taxes.

  It was Dovey’s first morning working as a collector. She had spent the past two days going around and around Virgil’s corral, gathering dust on her dress and in her hair as she accustomed herself to the saddle—and to the strange sensation of riding astride. It gave her a tingling thrill, a flush of exciting indecency, to spread her legs in that shameless fashion. True, the only thing that got between her thighs was an old, jouncy saddle—it issued a leathery croak with every step the horse took, like a frog that had long since given up on the absurdity of life—but it was the generals of the act that excited her, not the particulars.

  Equally thrilling were the trousers she wore under her skirt. Virgil had found an old, patched pair to fit her, and he’d cut off their frayed cuffs with his knife. The first time she had donned them, sliding them over her knee-length bloomers, she had blushed at the way they’d clung to her body, their intimate insistence, their habit of holding every inch of her flesh from ankle to hip.

  How did men stand to wear trousers every waking moment? They were so distracting, in a way that sent a not-unpleasant tickle sliding around in her belly. Dovey had known from the moment Virgil gave her the job that Seattle would be in for a shock, when they first witnessed the spectacle of a girl riding astride. She wondered, would it heighten the city’s distress more to see her legs clad only in stockings from knee to boot? Or would they take it harder to see a woman in trousers—to know that she must feel the secretive brush of the stiff fabric all up and down her limbs?

  The question of the trousers proved Dovey’s only real difficulty. Riding was certainly not the tribulation she had expected it to be. She gave credit there to Blue, the fat, roan gelding Virgil had dedicated to Dovey’s cause. Blue was a plodder who cared for nothing but grass, grain, and shade. He forgave Dovey all her ungracious bouncing, ignored most of her novice tugs on the reins. But he would patiently walk in whatever direction Dovey pointed his head, and stop when she said “whoa,” and that was all Dovey required for an equitable partnership.

  Yet even though she knew Blue was a horse of a humble caliber, Dovey enjoyed a delicious sense of power and authority mounted on his back. When she was in the saddle, it didn’t matter one bit that she was small and dainty. It didn’t even matter that she was female. She towered over just about everybody, and could move with speed when Blue could be convinced of the necessity.

  She derived an even greater confidence from the Colt strapped to her right leg. Virgil had presented her with a holster made of tooled mahogany leather, with two slim buckles of jingling brass. He’d talked Dovey through the process of buckling it snugly to her thigh—it wouldn’t have done for him to do the buckling himself, of course. That was a touch even more secret than the clinch of trouser legs, and Dovey wouldn’t have allowed such an audacity even if Virgil had been cad enough to try. When she swung up into the saddle, her skirt rose above her knees, exposing her trousers to view but concealing the pistol under a pile of ladylike ruffles and weaves. It was easy to reach under her bunched petticoats and draw the gun. She’d practiced the motion a few times for Virgil to see, and when he’d declared the effect perfect as a plum, Dovey had grinned.

  She tucked the map back into her saddlebag, then pulled on the reins with a few muttered curses until finally Blue raised his head.

  “Time to get to work,” she told the horse, and pointed his head down the rutted lane.

  The narrow road ran past an overgrown ditch, then twisted through a stand of cedars toward the rocky bay. George Whistler’s house was little more than a shack, small and squatting, with a gently sloped roof and cedar shakes tacked haphazardly to its sides. But a fine, canvas-topped barouche stood in the yard, its sleek sides and the rims of its wheels enameled in snappy blue.

  It must have cost a pretty penny to ship that rig all the way to Seattle, Dovey thought, squinting across the yard at the carriage.

  Whistler, a potbellied man of middle years with bushy mutton chops sprouting from his jowls, appeared in the door of his little cedar shack.

  “Well, hel-lo,” he called, grinning. “What brings you a-riding up to my place, little cabbage?” He hoisted the belt of his trousers, as if readying himself for some vigorous activity.

  Dovey beamed at him from the height of Blue’s back. “I’ve come to see about your taxes, George S. Whistler.”

  The man stared up at her, blank-faced, for one stunned moment. Then he slapped his belly with both hands and roared out a gust of appreciative laughter. “Now, that’s a good joke—a little slip of a girl like you, coming after taxes! Who put you up to it? Was it Lawrence, from down at the docks? No, no—it must have been Charley Pierce from the Flatiron. Charley sure put one over on me! The next time I see him, I’ll say—”

  “No, sir,” Dovey broke in, still smiling sweetly. “I’m afraid this is no joke. I’m here to take the twenty-three dollars and thirty-six cents you owe for two years’ worth of income taxes. And if you don’t hand it over, I’m afraid I’ll have to shoot you.”

  This time, George Whistler didn’t bother to stop and stare in astonishment. He launched straight into that bellowing laugh, his bulk sagging against the doorframe, going weak and useless like a chunk of leaf lard melting in the sun.

  His laughter died in a wheeze when Dovey reached under her petticoats. She drew the Colt from its hidden holster and steadied it in her hand.

  Whistler’s face reddened. “Well, now, I’d say the joke’s gone far enough! I don’t know if that thing’s loaded, but you just put it right away again, young lady!”

  “No, sir
, I won’t. Not until you hand over the money you owe.”

  “I’m not playing, now!” Whistler took a few angry strides toward her. She could all but see the fumes of fury rising from his pate.

  Dovey aimed at a barrel a few feet from Whistler’s shack and fired. Blue hardly flinched when the pistol roared in his ear; the gun kicked Dovey’s arm almost out of its socket.

  Whistler’s barrel spurted a thin stream of brine. It puddled in the yard with a small, embarrassed splashing sound, like a little boy pissing his trousers.

  “You better pay up, Mister,” Dovey said. “I’m not real good at aiming this thing, and I don’t know where the next shot might go.”

  “God-a-mighty, you curly-headed hellbitch,” George Whistler muttered. “Just wait there while I go get the cash. And for the love of all things holy, don’t shoot that gun again!”

  Dovey counted every cent of Whistler’s payment and tucked it into her collection purse. The weight and jaunty jingle of it tickled her so well that she kicked Blue into a trot and went bouncing and grinning all the way back to the city.

  She rode into Virgil’s yard as pleased as a cat in the cream. Outside the corral, she swung down from Blue’s saddle—groaning a little with the ache of her long ride—and drew the collection purse from her skirt’s pocket.

  Virgil dashed from the back porch to meet her, leaping across the yard with his long, energetic stride, his rough cheeks flushed with expectation. “How did it go?”

  For answer, Dovey dropped the purse into his hands.

  He tossed it up into the air and caught it again; the coins gave a chipper clank. “That’s what I’m talking about! Let me count out your ten percent.”

  Grinning, Virgil sorted the coins in his palm, handed over Dovey’s cut, and, with a warm glint in his eye that made Dovey want to giggle, he added a bonus of a nickel. “Just ’cause you’re so pretty,” he said. Then he leaned toward her and brushed her cheek with a kiss.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  AN HONEST WOMAN

  Josephine climbed the steps to the university building and paused a moment to gaze up at its four soaring pillars, each one crowned by twin scrolls that curled like the horns of a ram. She reached out to touch the nearest, running her fingers across the deep channels that ran from top to bottom, scoring the firm, cool flesh of the limestone. They were as lofty as Asa Mercer’s ideals—and their purity and strength seemed to stand in mockery of Josephine’s failures.

  She passed beneath the university’s arched doorway and pushed open the heavy, carved-oak door. Inside, a wide, central hall waited quietly, floored in shining oak and set with a few large, heavy tables. There were no fine carpets on the floor, no works of art framed upon the walls. The interior was austere—spare, even—but its high, vaulted grandness and ample space spoke of Mercer’s cherished hope, the seeds he had sown for the future.

  A handful of young men gathered around one table, heads bowed over books. Another group of scholars made their way across the central hall, talking together in quiet but earnest tones as they hurried from one lecture to the next. A balcony encircled the interior, and through its white-painted, wrought-iron railings, Josephine could see more young men entering a second-story room, and could hear a man’s voice—a professor—raised in welcome.

  What I wouldn’t give to teach here, she thought, gazing about her, heart torn by regret and wistful hope. But it had been so long since she’d led a classroom—so long since she’d pursued a dream of her own. A university was surely beyond her now.

  But her prospects were still rosy enough to please any woman. The schoolmistress position on Whidbey Island beckoned—as did a life of quiet satisfaction at Bill Jakes’s side. There remained only one task to finish before she accepted the appointment as Coupeville’s new teacher—she must tell Asa Mercer that her plans had changed.

  She stepped forward to intercept the pack of scholars as they crossed before her. “Excuse me, sirs. I understand Mr. Asa Mercer still keeps an office here. Can you tell me where I might find him?”

  The college boys were cheerful and pointed out the founder’s office while they bobbed polite bows. In moments, Josephine was walking alone across the inner hall, toward Mercer’s shut door, which seemed to recede away from her with every step she took, taunting her with the impossibility of her errand.

  But she did reach his office at last, and his familiar voice bade her come in when she tapped on the door. Mr. Mercer looked up from a stack of papers; when he saw it was Josephine, his eyes widened in startlement.

  “Miss Carey!”

  She smoothed her lavender-colored skirt and gave a small, self-conscious laugh. “How strange—this is exactly the way we first met, isn’t it? I’m even wearing the same dress!”

  He rose from his seat, just as he had done in his cramped, musty office in Lowell, and gestured for her to sit. “And I am as pleased to see you now as I was then. What brings you here?”

  Josephine sank slowly onto the bench. Anxiety assailed her—that was nothing new; she had wrestled with Bill’s unlikely proposition for days now. With all her might, she had fought her alarming desire to accept his scandalous plan. Within the walls of the university, surrounded by its scholarly peace, the palpable presence of its high ideals, Josephine was more certain than ever that she must return to teaching—must take up that occupation which had always been her life’s calling.

  But faced with Asa Mercer’s expectant half smile, the orderly arrangement of his desk, the neatness and clarity of his expectations, she trembled inside, and wondered whether she was truly making the right decision. Certainly, Josephine felt a great affection for Bill Jakes. The depth of her feeling might even go beyond mere affection, as startling as that thought was. And more than her longing for Bill’s companionship, Josephine burned to do something for herself—to define her life in her own terms, to make some bold gesture that set her apart, mentally and emotionally, from Clifford and her past. Yet the promise she’d made to Sophronia hung heavy on her soul. She knew, as she settled shakily before Mr. Mercer’s gaze, that if she gave in to the desire of her heart, she would disappoint everyone—the friends she had made on the voyage from Massachusetts, and especially Asa Mercer.

  If I choose to do this thing—and Josephine knew, in the deepest recesses of her heart, that she had already chosen—I’ll be a disappointment to all the people I love and respect. I had best get used to it, and let the first of my friends down.

  “Mr. Mercer, I’ve come to let you know”—she paused, chewing for a moment on her lip, twisting her hands tightly in her lap, then she finished in a rush—“that I’ve agreed to take a position as a schoolmarm in Coupeville.”

  Mercer leaned back in his chair, his face paling, looking white as a sheet between the dark mass of his beard and the three symmetrical crests of his black hair. “I see.”

  “I understand that may come as some shock to you,” she said. “And perhaps even a … disappointment.”

  He recovered quickly from his dismay, resting his elbows on his desk with a jolly air. “I take it you’ve found a man to marry, then, and his business will take you up to the island?”

  “Erm … no.” Not exactly. “I’m going alone. Perhaps you were right after all, back in Lowell, and I’m just too old to attract the interest of any man. I suppose I must resign myself to the life of an old maid.” Her face heated at the falsehood, and she hoped Mercer took the color for a flush of embarrassment. “But I’m quite content to apply myself to my work. I enjoy educating young people. I always have. And I’ll work all the more diligently, knowing I can send some of them to this magnificent university someday.”

  She fell silent. They stared at one another across the breadth of the desk, and Mercer’s bright-blue eyes were distant and pensive.

  “You’re not … too terribly sore with me, I hope,” Josephine finally muttered.

  “Sore?” He chuckled lightly. “No, Miss Carey—never. You’ve been a friend to me; I still don’t k
now what I would have done without you, that day of the reception. You saved my skin!”

  “Then you don’t regret bringing me from Lowell? Even though I won’t marry a Seattle man?”

  “I must be content with your choice, for it is yours to make.”

  He attempted a game smile, but it looked rather sad and defeated. Josephine’s gut pinched with guilt.

  “I can see you feel some contrition, Miss Carey. You must put all thought of remorse aside. You know, I chose Lowell for my expedition most specifically.”

  She tilted her head, wondering. “Why? I always wondered, but I never did find the chance to ask you.”

  “Seattle is the very edge of the frontier, and somewhat isolated, I’ll grant you. But we do still hear the news of the nation here—even if it arrives late. There was perhaps no town in all the Union struck harder by the great rebellion than Lowell. So many businesses closed with such terrible speed; the economy was in a shambles virtually overnight. And so many young women were forced to find work. I knew that in such sad circumstances I could find exactly the kind of women Seattle needs. Hardworking. Dedicated. Strong and uncomplaining, of true moral character—and most of all, utterly fearless. Only adversity breeds such traits in a woman—or in a man. Only real testing tempers a spirit, and makes a person worthy of a grand adventure like Seattle.”

  Josephine hung her head. She had come through adversity—she had faced trials and dangers Mr. Mercer could hardly imagine. But it seemed the testing she’d faced had spoiled her spirit, not tempered it. Here she was, eager to lower herself into iniquity. What did that say about the substance of her character?

  “I fear I’m not worthy of Seattle after all,” she said softly. “And I’m sorry to have let you down, Mr. Mercer. I know you needed brides for your city—two hundred, you said! But here I am, leaving the town, without a ring on my finger, when you can’t afford to lose a single woman.”