“You haven’t seen the last of us,” Bridger reassured her when she went to his room to say her final goodbye. “You’re not going to the moon.”
She managed a smile and didn’t tell him that more than anything, she worried about his health and how much longer he’d be around. What if this was their last goodbye and she’d never see him again? “I do worry about you, even though you say you’re doing fine.”
“Don’t be silly. I’ll be around for a while.”
She wanted to believe him, but when she bent to kiss him for the final time, a tear broke through and slid down her cheek. “Oh, Bridger…” She could not go on.
He placed a hand on her arm and gave a gentle squeeze. “It’s all right, Sis. I’ve led a good life. I’ll die happy, knowing you’re happy, so tell Robert Romano he’d better be good to you, and if he’s not, I’m coming back to haunt him.”
Now, sitting in the noisy, hot depot thinking of her brother, she could cry again, but she wouldn’t because he wouldn’t want her to. He’d be pleased that so far everything had gone so well. The journey from Savannah hadn’t been too terrible, just tiresome, what with having to take two different trains before she even got to Omaha. She’d arrived the night before and stayed in a hotel where she’d been given a lovely room with a soft bed. She had to pay extra for a hot bath, but it was well worth the money. This morning she faced the train ride fresh, rested, and stylishly dressed in her new brown wool suit with the draped overskirt, white blouse and gloves, ostrich-plumed hat placed firmly atop her upswept hair. Hard to imagine that in less than five days she’d be in California. Why had she been so fearful of traveling alone? Now the train ride didn’t seem daunting at all. The rest of the way, she’d be traveling on the same train. Only the names of the railroad company would change: the Union Pacific Line to Ogden, Utah; the Central Pacific Line to Sacramento; the Western Pacific Line to the Oakland Pier where a quick ferryboat ride would carry her across San Francisco Bay to her journey’s end and the future husband who’d be eagerly awaiting her. What could be easier?
The train from Chicago arrived on time. Belle climbed aboard the third car from the engine and searched for a vacant seat. Not many were available. The first one she passed was next to a woman with a crying baby on her lap. No, thank you. The next available seat was beside an older lady, somewhere in her seventies, she’d guess, bone thin, with a face full of wrinkles, dressed quite elegantly in a dark wool suit and a small black hat decorated with black beads and a black feather plume. She was busy with some sort of crocheting. Belle bent over the seat and inquired, “Excuse me, is this seat taken?”
The lady’s gaze swept over her. She dropped her crocheting to her lap. Her mouth pursed, as if she’d just sucked a lemon. “No, it is not.”
“Then would you mind if I sat down?”
“Suit yourself.”
Not exactly a warm invitation. Belle glanced up the aisle, but all other seats seemed to be occupied. So she would indeed suit herself and sit down, despite the lady’s unfriendly reply. She settled herself and placed her valise under the seat. Would the lady remain silent? Would they ride clear to California without an exchange of words? Surely not, and she would try again. She placed a smile on her face and turned toward her seatmate. “Hello, I’m Belle Ainsworth from Savannah, Georgia. This is my first time on the transcontinental railroad, and I’m so excited.”
She sat back and waited. Mrs. Sour Face would be compelled to reply or be guilty of committing a horrendous breach of etiquette.
The lady turned her head slowly, with obvious reluctance. “I’m Mrs. Edith Hollister from San Francisco. This is my third time on the transcontinental railroad, and I’m not excited at all.”
“Oh. I see. Well…” Belle floundered around for words.
“You can speak if you like,” declared Mrs. Hollister. “But I’m not one for idle chitchat. So you’re from the South?”
“Yes, Savannah, Georgia.” Like I said.
“Then you should know I dislike talking about the Civil War. That’s all you Southerners talk about, even though the whole affair is long since over and done with. I find the entire subject quite boring.”
Boring? Father, Gregory, Bridger, Jeremy, all the others. “Never fear, I wouldn’t dream of discussing the Civil War with you.” She refrained from adding, or anything else for that matter, but made no effort to conceal the annoyance in her voice.
Mrs. Hollister drew back, as if surprised at Belle’s touchy reply. “No need to get huffy. I apologize. I had no wish to offend you.”
“Quite all right.” It wasn’t all right, and neither was the woman’s phony apology, but Belle said no more, and soon, with a long, piercing blow of a whistle and a near-deafening huffing and chuffing, the train got under way. She wished she was sitting by the window so she could get a better view. She wanted to see out, though, and was forced to peer across her aloof seatmate in order to see anything. There wasn’t much. After the train left the outskirts of Omaha, aside from a few farms, her view consisted of sand and tumbleweeds.
“Not much to see out there, is there?” Mrs. Hollister asked.
Fancy that. Her unpleasant seatmate had spoken in a sociable fashion. Belle’s inclination was to ignore her, but they’d be riding together a long way, and better to at least be on a speaking basis. “No, there isn’t much to see, but I’m fascinated anyway. They say the building of the transcontinental railway was a great feat of engineering.”
Mrs. Hollister wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “I really can’t see what’s so difficult about laying a train track. If you ask me, they could have laid the entire thing where the ground was flat, but no, they’re bent on terrifying the poor passengers. We go through tunnels you think will never end, and bridges? Wait till we get to Evans Pass. That’s in Wyoming. There’s a trestle high over Dale Creek where you look hundreds of feet straight down. I give my heart to God every time we cross it.”
Belle had studied enough geography to know two rather large mountain chains made finding a flat route to California impossible. She would refrain from saying so, though. “What’s our next stop?”
“I’ve no idea, but it’ll be soon. The train must stop every hundred miles or so to take on water. Something about steam for the boiler. So very tedious. I should think there’d be a better way, but of course no one’s asking what I think.”
To Belle’s relief, they started chatting in a civilized manner, although she didn’t appreciate her companion’s negative views on everything from the railroad company’s choice of routes to the crying baby up the aisle, who, according to Mrs. Hollister, shouldn’t have been allowed on the train until it was twelve years old. Once she got going, there was no stopping her. Apparently she’d decided Belle was not only worth talking to but should be made aware of her high status in life. In great detail she described her fancy home in San Francisco—a mansion, she called it, “High on Nob Hill where the robber barons live.” She lamented the fact that the train had yet to provide a separate car for first-class passengers, “Where I wouldn’t have to associate with riffraff and low-class persons.” But at least the Union Pacific Railroad had finally seen fit to add a dining car, far superior to when the train had to stop at a series of dreadful shacks beside the tracks where the passengers were given twenty minutes to eat, and the food consisted of rancid meat, cold beans, and old coffee. Because there wasn’t one decent jewelry store in San Francisco, she’d been compelled to travel clear across the country to Tiffany & Company in New York. “My dear, I wouldn’t dream of going anyplace else.” This time around, she’d bought a hundred-piece china service, carefully packed and stored in the baggage car, and—she touched the butterfly brooch on her shoulder—“I love this. Eighteen-carat gold, and those are real diamonds in the center, all fifteen of them. And of course, my real pearl necklace and my rings.” She held up her hands and wiggled her fingers, four of which bore expensi
ve-looking rings. “These are all from Tiffany’s.”
Belle remained unimpressed. The snobbish woman had talked of nothing but herself and hadn’t shown the slightest interest in why her seatmate was traveling west. Fine with Belle. Although she’d convinced herself no shame should be attached to being a mail-order bride, she didn’t care to say so and was grateful her pretty much one-way conversation with her newfound companion helped pass the time.
Late in the day, a steward in a white jacket came through the car ringing a chime, announcing, “First call for dinner.”
“Shall we go?” Mrs. Hollister inquired.
“Sounds wonderful.” Despite the woman’s snobbishness and pessimism, Belle was happy to go along. Who wanted to eat alone?
“You’ll find the food is excellent,” Mrs. Hollister said. “They don’t give you a choice of table, though. In the past, I’ve highly objected, but it does no good. You must eat with whomever they put you with.”
Belle suppressed a smile. After long hours of listening to Mrs. Hollister, she would love to talk to someone with a more positive view of life.
The dining car was situated ahead of the caboose, three cars back from their own. She soon discovered getting there was no easy feat. The cars were connected by an open passage, exposed to the elements. To get from one car to the next, she must step over a shifting plate between the swaying cars, nothing on either side but chain guardrails. She glanced downward at the ground flying by beneath her feet. One slip and she’d be gone forever. To make matters worse, soot, red-hot cinders, and ash from the exhaust of the locomotive constantly flew by. She turned to Mrs. Hollister who followed directly behind. “Dear me, this is dangerous.” She was surprised the woman would even attempt such a treacherous undertaking.
Her seatmate had a determined look on her face. “It’s better than rancid meat and cold coffee.”
They reached the dining car, which Belle found to be far more elegant than she’d imagined with its plush carpet, wide windows, and murals on the walls. A row of larger tables seating four ran along one side of the aisle; tables seating two ran along the other side, all with white linen tablecloths and gleaming silver and crystal. When they arrived, they had to stand in a short line. When they got to the front, Mrs. Hollister spoke to the steward. “I would like a table for two.”
“Sorry, madam, if you want a table for two, you’ll have to wait. Only tables for four are available right now.”
“Then we’d like one to ourselves.”
The steward threw her a withering glance, as if he’d never heard of anything so outlandish. “Not possible.”
Belle spoke up. She was starving. “We don’t mind sharing a table, do we, Mrs. Hollister?”
The older woman frowned with annoyance. “Oh, very well. Lead the way.”
The steward led them halfway down the aisle to a table where two men occupied the seats riding forward. One, a corpulent gentleman in his forties, wore a stylish suit and vest with a gold watch chain draped across the front. The other, who was somewhat younger and a whole lot thinner, wore a plain dark suit. With a flourish, the waiter indicated the two seats riding backward. “Enjoy your dinner, ladies.”
Belle took the seat by the window, directly across from the younger, thinner man. As Mrs. Hollister seated herself, her lips pursed into their sour-lemon look. “I detest riding backward.”
The heavier gentleman immediately spoke up. “Oh, say, we can’t have that. We’d be happy to switch with you”—he looked to his companion—“wouldn’t we, Yancy?”
Before the other one could answer, Mrs. Hollister raised her hand. “Never mind. I shall manage.”
No surprise there. Belle hadn’t known her seatmate long, but long enough to recognize she liked to complain for the sake of complaining. No doubt she didn’t really mind riding backward. It was just something to complain about.
The older man chuckled. “Which is better? To see where you’re going or to see where you’ve been?” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Ronald McLeish from San Francisco. I’m delighted to dine with two such lovely ladies as you.”
Mrs. Hollister extended her hand reluctantly and gave him a quick, limp handshake. “Delighted to meet you. I’m Mrs. Edith Hollister from San Francisco.” Her words came out pinched, as if she begrudged each one as it left her mouth.
If the gentleman noticed, he gave no sign of it and extended his hand to Belle. “Pleased to meet you, little lady.”
Belle took his hand and shook it with a firm grasp. “I’m Belle Ainsworth from Savannah, Georgia, and I’m delighted to meet you.”
He glanced toward his companion. “This is my brother, Yancy McLeish.”
The younger man had been sitting so quietly Belle had hardly noticed him. Now that she looked closer, she could tell they were brothers from the definite similarity about their mouths, and the same brown eyes. But other than that, the resemblance ended. Ronald’s facial features had gone soft and pudgy, and he had a double chin, while Yancy’s sharp cheekbones and angular jaw made his lean face almost too thin, and from what she could see of his sinewy body, he carried not one extra ounce of fat. He didn’t appear to be as outgoing as his brother, either. “Pleased to meet you,” he said with a short nod to each of them. Polite enough, but without his brother’s excess joviality.
Belle returned a “Delighted,” and for the first time gazed directly into his eyes. They weren’t smiling eyes, nor were they cold, either. They just didn’t have that spark of interest in them, like she remembered when she was the most popular belle in Savannah, and the young men’s eyes carried that certain gleam that told her how smitten they were. Nice eyes, though, set deep, and at least friendly.
With a beaming smile, Ronald McLeish reached in his pocket and handed each a business card. “At your service, ladies, in case you’re ever looking for a bank in San Francisco.”
Belle glanced at the card. “So you’re president of a bank?”
“That I am. Of course that doesn’t mean I’m rich as the robber barons who live on Nob Hill.” He gave a chuckle. “As you can see, I’m not riding in my own private railroad car.”
Mrs. Hollister took a long moment to stare at the card. When she raised her eyes, an actual smile tilted the corners of her mouth, a sight Belle hadn’t seen before. “Well, fancy that, a bank president.” Her tone of voice had become all warm and friendly.
Ronald McLeish turned to his brother. “Yancy here comes from Maine. Lives out in the woods with the bears and Indians. Just wait. When we get to San Francisco, I’m going to show him what fine living is all about so maybe he’ll stay.” He slapped his brother so hard on the back he had to grasp the edge of the table. “What do you say to that, my boy?”
A slow grin crossed Yancy’s face. His brother’s excess cheeriness didn’t seem to bother him. “We’ll see, Ronald.” He picked up a menu. “Time to order.”
From then on, Belle began to enjoy herself, more than she thought she would. To begin with, she’d expected the food would be ordinary, but to her delight the menu listed such items as Braised Duck Cumberland, Lobster Americaine, Hungarian Beef Goulash with Potato Dumplings, and more. She chose the braised duck and soon found herself laughing and chatting, engaged in lively conversation with her newfound friends. The banker might be a bit bombastic, but he provided fascinating stories of what he called the “real” San Francisco and the shockingly wicked doings of what went on in the notorious Barbary Coast. Mrs. Hollister lost some of her rigid demeanor and gave them a description of the fancy mansions on Nob Hill and the high and mighty millionaires who lived there. Yancy didn’t talk much, but when asked, he described his dealings with the friendly Indians who lived around Moose Lake. “People think they’re savages, but they’re more civilized than some white people I know.”
Belle had finished her braised duck and had been served her dessert of chocolate mousse when a sudden sense of w
ell-being struck her. Here she was, traveling with affable companions, enjoying a fabulous meal on a gently rocking train, watching the whole country roll by as she traveled in style to a new life and the wonderful man she was going to marry. What more could she ask for? Life was good. Surely she’d made all the right choices. She smiled and drew in a satisfied breath.
The banker was busy talking to Mrs. Hollister, but Yancy had been watching her. “You’re smiling, Miss Ainsworth.”
“Yes, I am. It’s because…” How could she explain? “It’s because I’m happy. I know that sounds silly, but—”
“Not silly at all. Seize the moment and hope that it lasts.”
How surprising. She hadn’t expected such a thoughtful answer from the quiet man in plain clothing who sat across. “I didn’t think of it that way, but you’re quite right. And what about you, Mr. McLeish? Have you seized the moment?”
He laughed in appreciation and was about to answer when his brother, who’d drunk several glasses of wine during dinner, slung an over-friendly arm around his shoulders. “Listen everyone, I’ll have you know Yancy here is the family hero. Served four years in the Union Army and—”
“That’s enough, Ronald.” Yancy spoke in a soft voice edged with an overtone of uncompromising firmness. “These folks don’t want to hear about a war that’s long since over. Who did what doesn’t matter anymore.”
Mrs. Hollister bobbed her head in agreement. “Absolutely right. Let’s change the subject.”
Belle had been bringing a spoonful of her chocolate mousse to her mouth when the words “Union Army” stopped her halfway. After the briefest of hesitations, she continued as if nothing had happened. Never let it be said she’d create a scene in public, or private, for that matter, but she had to take a moment to absorb this startling information and laid her spoon down. Dear Lord! She was sitting across from a Yankee—sharing his table—chatting agreeably. If she’d thought about it, she’d have realized she wasn’t in the South anymore, so of course this was bound to happen. She couldn’t change her feelings, though. The Yankees had nearly destroyed her family, her home, everything she held dear in life. Yes, she’d survived, but she’d never, ever forget the terrible price she and her family had paid.
Bay City Belle Page 4