Henry waved down a newsboy and procured one copy of the New York Herald and one of the New York Tribune. He handed her the Tribune and they both read as they waited.
Two hours later, the windows had finally opened and the line was creeping forward. She leaned sideways. How many women were still in front of her?
The conversation between two men walking past caught her ear, distracting her from her count.
“Another one died of cholera.” One man, his nose buried in a paper, sighed.
His companion grunted and rustled his own paper. “Better than this one what died of gunshot, I reckon.”
“Least the shot’s quick.”
“Not always. Remember Virgil...” The men’s conversation faded beyond her hearing as they continued on their way.
Please, God, don’t let that be it. She took a deep breath. She would not cry. That can’t be the reason.
Uncle Henry squeezed her elbow, drawing her watery gaze to his face. “None of that now.” He patted her shoulder as they stepped forward in the line. “Your pa is one of the toughest men I know. He’s probably just up in a mountain somewhere afraid to leave his claim unattended.”
She blinked until her vision cleared. “His last letter said he was working on a dike in San Diego.”
“It said he was going to inquire about working on a dike in San Diego.” He squinted at her. “That doesn’t mean he got the job or that he didn’t get distracted once he was down there.”
“But what if—”
Henry held up his free hand. “No.”
Eliza pulled her elbow free and pivoted to face him, lifting her chin for the too-familiar battle. “If he’s hurt or sick, he needs me.”
“He’s a grown man, Eliza. He knows how to care for himself.”
Uncle Henry still resents Pa for stealing Mama’s heart away from him. That’s why he doesn’t want me to go after Pa.
Eliza pushed away the nasty thought. It took her weeks after Pa left to get the reason for the brothers’ estrangement out of her uncle. He claimed to be over the hurt, but if that were so, wouldn’t he be more concerned? “He—”
“Eliza, I said no.” His voice rose. “Whether you like it or not, a young woman has no business traipsing around the wilderness unescorted.” He glanced around. Several curious faces looked their way. He continued in a much lower voice. “This is one instance in which your aunt is correct. It is neither safe nor decent for you to go searching for your father alone, and I simply cannot be away from my businesses at this time. Perhaps in another month or two, but not now. And I don’t want to hear another word about it.”
She swallowed her retort. She was being unfair. His businesses were struggling. They were far less profitable than they’d been before this recent decline.
The woman in front of her stepped away from the window. At last. Eliza gave the clerk her name and tucked the newspaper under her arm as the man proceeded to search for a letter addressed to her. Several minutes passed before he returned to the window.
“I’m sorry, miss. I have no letters addressed to that name.”
“Try Eli Brooks.”
The clerk looked as if he’d sucked a lemon. “I have, miss. I do remember you.”
She gritted her teeth. “Well, look again.”
“Eliza,” Henry whispered.
“Yes, miss.” The clerk searched for another moment before returning with a stony expression. “I’m sorry, miss.”
“That’s not possible. You must not be looking in the right place. Here”—Eliza reached into her reticule and retrieved Pa’s last letter—“look at his handwriting again. Perhaps that will help.”
The man didn’t even glance at the letter. “I’m sorry, miss. There are no letters addressed to either an Eliza Brooks or an Eli Brooks. There are no letters addressed to simply Eliza. There are no unaddressed letters that match the handwriting on the letter that you have shown me every two weeks for the past three months. And no, you may not come in and look for yourself.” As he spoke, the clerk’s voice grew louder until a clearing throat interrupted him.
The postmaster took the clerk’s place at the window. “Good day, Miss Brooks. I’m so glad to see you. I wanted you to know that, per our discussion two weeks ago, I did give special attention to searching each and every letter that came in for any hint that it might have been written by your father for delivery to you. Unfortunately, as my clerk has already informed you, I was unsuccessful in my search.”
A wind gust cast one of Eliza’s curls into her face. She swatted it away.
The smile on the postmaster’s face didn’t hide the steel in his eyes. “However, I will be pleased to continue my search as the day continues and, should a letter of such description come to my attention, I will deliver it myself posthaste to the address that you so generously provided for me upon our last meeting. I appreciate your understanding our need to keep the lines moving at this time in deference to our other applicants.” He gestured to the women waiting behind her. “I do thank you for stopping by and, if I do not see you sooner, I will look forward to speaking with you upon the arrival of the next mail steamer.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but Henry snatched her elbow and tugged her from the window.
“Thank you, sir,” Henry spoke over his shoulder as he steered her away.
Eliza yanked free and spun toward the window. Another woman blocked it. Eliza turned to Henry, hands on her hips. “Why did you do that?”
“To avoid the scene you caused last time, of course. Do not mistake my defending you to your aunt as approval of your behavior. I do not enjoy your scenes any more than she does.” He glanced around them. “Ah. Here is Frank. I asked him to return for you once he had delivered Cecilia. I have other business to attend, but he’ll see you home.”
What has happened to Pa? Eliza rapped the folded newspaper against her palm as she counted the months since the arrival of Pa’s last letter. Four.
She stepped into the entryway of Uncle Henry’s home and pulled the cord that would ring a bell in the kitchen, letting the housekeeper know she’d returned. She set the New York Herald on the side table before untying her bonnet. With the felt brim clutched in her hands, she squeezed her eyes shut as the newspapers’ horrors swarmed her mind. Died of cholera. Died of fever. Died of pistol shot wound to the abdomen. Drowned. Stabbed. Lynched.
With effort, Eliza closed her mind to the possibilities. Pa was alive.
Please, Lord. Keep Pa safe. Amen.
Opening her eyes, she lifted her chin to inspect her appearance in the framed mirror on the wall. Two wavy, brown hairs were loose. She should have been more careful removing her bonnet. Tucking the stray hairs back into her bun, she eyed the curls on either side of her face. Satisfied that they’d not been disheveled by the strong breezes at the wharf, she left her bonnet on the side table and proceeded down the hall. Where had Amelia got to? She ought to have come to the foyer by now.
Ah. There she was.
The Davidsons’ latest housekeeper was entering the dining room with a precarious armload of dishes, glassware, and silverware. A sheen of sweat glistened on her forehead.
“Amelia Murphy!” Eliza hurried to relieve the woman of the rattling glassware. “What have I instructed you about setting the table?”
“Not to carry too much at once, miss.” Amelia’s round cheeks flushed as she shifted the delicate dinner plates in her short arms. She bent her right arm to swipe at several red hairs sticking to her sweaty forehead. “But the missus asked me to prepare a full-course meal, and I’m run off me feet as it is.”
“She—”
“Oh!” Amelia’s large green eyes widened and her jaw sagged, jiggling her second chin. “The pie!” She dropped her load of plates and silverware onto the table with a terrible crash and dashed out of the room.
Pursing her lips, Eliza marched to the table, set down the glassware, and lifted a plate to inspect it for cracks. If Amelia had broken one it would be the third this
month.
Why did Cecilia tolerate the woman’s distracted nature, never mind her complete inability to remember the simplest of instructions from one day to the next? After the second cracked plate, Eliza had argued for Amelia’s dismissal, but Cecilia would not hear it. She reminded Eliza that Amelia was their fifth housekeeper this year, and she refused to dismiss another one for “failing to live up to Eliza’s exacting standards.”
Eliza snorted as she set down one plate and picked up the next.
Cecilia had claimed it was unfair to the women they’d employed to expect such perfection, but Eliza couldn’t help that the women sent to them by the San Francisco Ladies’ Protection and Relief Society had all been incompetent layabouts.
She winced as she picked up another plate and ran her fingers across its smooth surface. All right, so layabout was an exaggeration. With the downturn in her uncle’s business, the family relied on two servants to accomplish the tasks once performed by a staff of six. Still, shouldn’t a housekeeper perform her duties with efficiency and attention to detail? Eliza wasn’t asking them to do anything she herself couldn’t do. And that was just it, wasn’t it?
Eliza drew a deep breath and blew it out.
“Looking for more to complain about?”
Eliza whirled toward the hall as Cecilia glided through the doorway. “She was carrying too much again and let it all crash onto the table. I’m checking whether she’s cracked anything.”
“Too much, too little.” Cecilia tisked as she approached the table. “These women can never do anything right in your eyes. What would you have me do? Turn them all out and leave the tasks to you?”
“I’d do a better job and save Uncle the money he spends replacing dishware broken by careless hands.”
Cecilia laughed. “Utterly unsuitable. As much as you eschew the position, you are a gentleman’s niece and are expected to behave as such.” She lifted a glass and appeared to inspect it. “Besides, where would Mrs. Murphy go?”
Eliza stifled a snort. As if that were Cecilia’s true concern and not the risk of offending her friends at The Society.
Cecilia set down one glass and lifted another. “These women turn to The Society for aid because their sons and husbands have gone off to the mines and left them to fend for themselves. The last time we let a housekeeper go, Mrs. Swenson reminded me that we have far more women in need than positions available these days. I would think you, of all people, would be a little more understanding of their situation.”
Eliza’s fingers squeaked across the plate’s surface. Of course she understood. Too well. It was Cecilia who didn’t understand. Amelia and the other housekeepers were a daily reminder of exactly what Eliza understood—she’d been abandoned.
No. Eliza wasn’t like them. Pa hadn’t left her in the streets. He brought her to Uncle Henry because he thought staying here and learning to be a lady was what Mama would have wanted. It didn’t matter that he was wrong. His intentions had been pure and loving and she would do anything to reunite with him. If he had ever stayed in one place long enough over these past four years, she’d have found a way to join him long before his letters stopped.
But these women. Most of them knew exactly where their men were, yet not one of these women had the courage to go after their men—to find them and make them listen.
What was it that made a man think it was necessary to abandon the women in his life? California was crawling with men who’d left their families behind—if not in San Francisco, then somewhere back east. Didn’t they love their wives, mothers, and daughters? Didn’t they understand they were needed far more than any gold they might—
Was that a chip in the surface?
Eliza tilted the plate to catch the light. Just a water spot. With a sigh, she huffed on its surface and used the fabric of her skirt to wipe it away. Having satisfied herself that none of the plates were cracked and all were spot-free, she placed them about the table. Seeing that her uncle enjoyed a pleasant meal at the end of each work day was one of the small ways she’d found to repay his kindness. He should be able to rely on his wife and housekeeper to oversee the task, but as usua—
Wait. She counted again. Four dinner plates. She sighed. Amelia had miscounted. She stepped toward the kitchen with the extra plate.
“If you’re headed to the kitchen”—Cecilia’s voice trailed after her—“please remind Mrs. Murphy that we have a guest joining us for supper this evening.”
Eliza’s hand froze on the kitchen doorknob. She counted to ten before turning. “I thought we understood one another.”
Cecilia didn’t glance up from her inspection of the place settings. “Whatever do you mean?”
Eliza waved the extra plate. “I thought you had given up your endeavors to marry me off. I thought you understood, after Mr. Anders practically ran from your last supper disaster.” She sliced her empty hand through the air in an imitation of Mr. Anders’s hasty departure. “The man who will accept me as I am doesn’t exist.”
Cecilia opened her mouth, but Eliza held up a finger as she returned to the table. “And before you say it, I am not interested in changing.” She thumped the plate onto the table.
Cecilia’s cold gaze lifted to Eliza’s. “Are you quite through?”
What could she say that she hadn’t already said in a prior conversation? She shrugged.
“Good.” Cecilia folded her hands.
Eliza inwardly cringed. How many times had her aunt admonished her not to gesture when speaking? She’d forgotten again.
“First, I should like to remind you that this is my home and that you are here out of the kindness of my heart.”
Eliza sucked in her lips. More like the kindness of Uncle Henry’s heart.
Cecilia had been so determined to turn Eliza into a lady. A determination that disappeared after Eliza’s uncensored tongue humiliated her at a Society fundraising event last year. Cecilia was so incensed, she tried to get Henry to kick Eliza out. Blessedly, Henry had held firm in his refusal.
“Second, although I do endeavor to take your preferences into consideration whenever possible, as a guest in this house, you have no say in whom we choose to invite to dinner. Should you find yourself unable to refrain from improper behavior, such as you have done on too many occasions in the past”—the knuckles on Cecilia’s hands whitened—“you are welcome to excuse yourself politely and retire to your room.”
June 1853 (7 months before)
Roxbury, Massachusetts
Alice Stevens tossed another crumpled letter into the fire. It was no use. How could she find the correct words when she didn’t know what she wanted to say?
She stood and paced the confines of her chamber. Her foot tangled in a heap of crumpled silk. With a huff, she scooped her younger sister’s nightdress from the floor and tossed it onto their unmade bed. Surveying the chaos, she rubbed her forehead. Three days until their new maid arrived. Yanking the nightdress from the bed, she dropped it back to the floor. A few flicks and tugs had the bed to rights. She folded Caroline’s nightdress and returned it to the wardrobe.
Her friends would be horrified to learn the depths her family sank to each time a maid couldn’t hold her tongue about her father’s indiscretions. Though many of her acquaintances were not of a class to employ a lady’s maid, they expected more of her family, given Father’s lineage. Yet there was a limit to how many of Father’s dalliances her mother’s substantial dowry could cover. The money was running out. The servants murmured in the halls. Soon, there would be whispers in parlors and ballrooms across the city.
Alice must marry.
She stalked back to the small table she employed as a desk. Daniel simply had to return and fulfill his promises. He was the only man she trusted to do so. She had hoped...but no. Shaking her head, she took a seat and lifted her pen.
My dearest Daniel,
I sincerely apologize for the delay in my response to your lovely letters. While I have enjoyed reading of your continued success
in California, I must confess—
Shouting rose from the first floor. Alice stood and hurried down the hall.
Her brother’s voice carried up the stairs. “That money was not yours to spend, you greedy oaf!”
“Watch how you speak to your father, boy.”
After a year away, the first thing Richard did was start an argument with Father?
“I haven’t been a boy for a long time, thanks to you. That money was mine!”
Did Richard have to shout so? The neighbors might hear.
A maid poked her head from the guest chamber, her ear cocked to the scene below.
Heat flushed Alice’s body. Richard had little more sense of propriety and discretion than Father.
“Balderdash! I haven’t the time for this. When I return, you’d better have come to your senses.”
She rushed down the stairs in time to see the front door slam behind Father.
Richard spun from the closed door and stormed into the parlor.
She followed him.
He stopped in front of Mother, who, as usual, sat wet-faced and weary upon the settee. Richard pointed toward the door. “I have not spent the past several months slaving as a sawyer so that that oaf could waste the money I sent you on fripperies for his—”
“Richard!” Alice kept her voice to a harsh whisper. “Lower your voice. Do you want the servants to hear you?”
“I do not care.”
“Well, you ought.” Alice crossed her arms. “Last week we had to let go our lady’s maid and our dairymaid after I caught them in the barn gossiping about Father. One can only imagine what they’ve been saying about town. I—”
Richard splayed his arms toward Mother. “Which is exactly why you must allow me to take you away from here. Let me take you to California, where you’ll be safe from the humiliation and pain he causes you. The mining companies are said to pay an excellent wage.” Richard dropped to one knee and took Mother’s hand. “I’d be able to support us. You’ve read what Daniel says about the growth there. San Francisco is becoming a real city with houses as grand as we have here. Why will you not consider it?”
Waltz in the Wilderness Page 3