Separate Roads

by Judith Pella

  She finished with the dishes, not giving Brenton’s silence much thought until he spoke to her in a gentle tone she’d not heard in weeks.

  “Jordana, come sit with me.”

  She turned and went to the table hesitantly. “What’s the matter?” She looked down at the letter in his hand. Another smaller envelope lay beside the bigger one. “Is it Mother?”

  “No,” he said softly. “The letter is from Billy Vanderbilt.”

  “Oh,” she said, breathing a sigh of relief. “You frightened me.” She had barely taken her seat when the realization began to dawn on her. “G.W.?”

  Brenton nodded. “I’m afraid he passed away early in the year. I’m sorry.” He reached out and handed her the letter, his large, warm hand closing over hers. “Billy was devastated and apologizes for taking so long to notify us.”

  Jordana didn’t want to look at the letter. She had long lived with the hope that G.W. would heal from his illness. After all, the Vanderbilts had money to spare and had taken him off to the best spa in Europe. The finest physicians in the world were available to see to his needs twenty-four hours a day. How then could he be dead?

  She blinked back unbidden tears and looked down at the letter. Her gaze immediately caught the word “dead” and then further down saw her name mentioned.

  “ ‘G.W. bid me to pass along this letter to Jordana,’ ” she read. “ ‘Her generosity of spirit and loving nature were present with him, even to the end.’ ”

  “Oh, Brenton!” She brought a trembling hand to her mouth. “He can’t be gone. He just can’t be.”

  Brenton reached down for the smaller envelope. “This one is marked for you. There are some other business papers here, so if you want to read this in private, I’ll understand.”

  She nodded and got up from the table. Lighting a second lamp, Jordana took the letter and lamp and retired to her bedroom. She trembled as she placed the lamp on her night table. G.W. was dead. Gone was the laughing young man she had cherished during her days in New York. Her friend was dead.

  Slumping onto the bed she tore open the envelope. The writing was hardly the bold and stylistic script of the once vibrant powerhouse of a man. Instead it was a spidery scrawl that belonged to that of a weakened invalid.

  Dearest Jordana,

  My illness must take me away from you, but I cannot go without dissolving this wall between us. I know I was the one to place this barrier. I built it brick by brick as I brooded over your refusal to marry me. I know now, seeing my own death before me, that you made a wise and fortuitous choice. Perhaps even ordained of God, for how could I leave a grieving widow in her prime? I go to my grave loving you, Jordana Baldwin. I will have that to carry me forward—to still my heart as I meet my Maker. Remember me fondly.

  Ever your devoted servant,

  G. W. Vanderbilt

  Warm tears coursed down her cheeks and dripped onto the single sheet of G.W.’s letter. He had forgiven her refusal of marriage. He had gone to his grave loving her, not hating her for her rejection of him.

  Tucking the letter carefully back into the envelope, Jordana curled up on the bed and sobbed softly into her pillow. Life was hard and cruel, and it seemed too much to expect a woman of eighteen to endure.

  How could he be gone? Gone for months without her even knowing it.

  She cried for his passing and cried for what might have been between them. She wondered silently what his funeral might have been like. Had they buried him in France or returned him to New York?

  She had long mourned the dissolution of their friendship, but now she reflected on the days they’d once shared. G.W. had talked to her as an equal. He had respected her ability to reason and think. He had given her special attention, taking her on long walks where they would touch on important issues at hand. He had been a good friend, and now he was gone.

  The thought of their friendship caused Jordana to think of Captain O’Brian. He too had offered her friendship. He believed firmly that men and women could be friends. Yet she hadn’t seen him in nearly a month.

  Well, it’s best that way, she decided. I don’t need any more friends. It’s much too painful to lose them. G.W.’s passing only served to stiffen her resolve. She would be much happier to need no one. She would lean on God and her own abilities, but she would avoid the depths of friendship such as she had experienced with G.W.

  Sighing, she thought of Brenton and Caitlan. These were dear friends, and she needed them. How would it be possible for her to gird herself against the risks of giving in such a manner? Perhaps it was a foolish notion, yet she knew that tonight something had hardened within her. A wall had formed that would not easily open up again.

  20

  Brenton shifted nervously in his seat and folded and refolded his hands. He didn’t want to appear anxious, but he was. He’d been summoned to attend a meeting of several important people associated with the Union Pacific. Peter Dey had sent a messenger with a formal-looking letter announcing his desire for Brenton Baldwin to be in attendance for a consultation regarding the survey assessments and building of the Union Pacific Railroad.

  Now, seated in Dey’s small office, with no fewer than ten other men squeezed in around him, Brenton felt rather insignificant. Here he was, not yet twenty-one, and he had been called to a meeting of the most important men in Omaha.

  “I can’t say that I’m happy about the Hoxie proposal,” Dey told them. “I’m not even sure who H. M. Hoxie is and why Mr. Durant believes him capable of constructing the first one hundred miles of this railroad, but nevertheless, his was the only bid received.”

  Brenton found it surprising that no other construction firm had sought to bid on what would surely become the building project of the century.

  “I am further dismayed by the suggestion made by our colleague Colonel Silas Seymour.” All heads turned to the man of whom Dey was speaking. The colonel acknowledged everyone with a nod but said nothing, and Dey continued. “I made a valuable survey of the area surrounding Omaha. It need not be compromised with the suggestion by our New York consulting engineer that the grade is too steep. Neither should it be allowed that the Platte River valley is any more of a threat to flooding than any other river, suggesting hundreds of thousands of dollars to be spent on building up levees and flood control.”

  “My honorable sir,” Colonel Seymour said in a low drawl. “I could not in good conscience tell our friend Mr. Durant that your original route was anything but questionable. I see the route as needing much in the way of assistance. I merely suggest we loop to the south and west. True enough it adds nine miles to the length of the railroad, but it would also allow for a more reasonable grade, which would eventually be to our benefit once actual rail travel becomes reality. As for flood control, I have spoken to many regarding this situation and feel confident that this is the most responsible way to proceed.”

  Dey fumed over the colonel’s obvious disregard for his position. Durant was well-known for usurping authority. Even authority he himself had assigned, such as was the case with Peter Dey.

  “To bring our attention back to the Hoxie contract, which, I might add, has not yet been ratified or approved,” Dey continued, “we must assure the route with the final surveys. Hoxie is working off of my original plans and information provided us by General Grenville Dodge. He has also, no doubt, included consideration for Colonel Seymour’s suggestions.

  “Hoxie’s contract proposes,” Dey explained, “that he should build the first one hundred miles for the sum of fifty thousand dollars per mile. He further declares that the cost of all stations, water tanks, machine shops, roundhouses, and any other necessary structures not exceed five hundred thousand dollars. Further, that if the cost of iron rails should increase to more than one hundred thirty dollars per ton, the Union Pacific would agree to pay the excess.”

  To Brenton, who was unfamiliar with contract issues and railroad management, the plan sounded reasonable. He was amazed that anyone could simply consult
a sketchy survey and then decide for themselves that each mile would cost X dollars. He had corresponded with his father by letters and had learned that much of building a railroad was pure conjecture and prayer.

  The meeting grew increasingly hostile as the colonel once again joined in the conversation to suggest that Dey’s concern was borne more out of injured pride than real concern. This in turn brought Dey to suggest that Seymour and Durant were simply bilking the United States Congress out of unreasonable amounts of money. Colonel Seymour merely smiled and replied that the amount was more than reasonable, given the task at hand.

  Brenton listened impatiently as the group continued to argue. He couldn’t see what part he might play in the situation, and his patience was growing thin. He despised arguments. Talking calmly and weighing the facts was a much more effective manner of dealing with business. His father had instilled this in his mind from the time he was a youngster, and now that he was a grown man in his own right, Brenton still maintained that it was sound advice. Perhaps it was this that caused him such irritation with Jordana. She had always been reasonable, and for all her daring exploits and ability to bring him around to her will, she had listened to sound counsel. Now she believed herself to have all the answers. She no longer listened or cared about what he might advise.

  “Mr. Baldwin, whose father is well-known in railroad circles,” Dey continued, immediately drawing Brenton’s attention, “has posted an interest in photographing our survey progress, as well as the actual building of the line once we begin to move out across the territory. His proposal has met with Mr. Durant’s approval, and I have asked him here today that he might witness our plans for the survey.”

  Brenton was thrilled. No one had given him any word on the matter since he had expressed his interest.

  “Mr. Baldwin, can you be ready to leave within the week?”

  Brenton nodded enthusiastically. “I will make myself ready. I have most of the supplies necessary for my photography work. I will need to ready my wagon, which provides my means of transportation as well as my darkroom.” He failed to mention that he had no clue as to what he would do with Jordana. Now that Caitlan lived with the Cavendish family, she was no longer a worry to him. At least, not in the matter of whether she’d be safe and well cared for. It didn’t stop him from thinking about her on a daily, maybe even an hourly basis.

  “Then we shall expect you to be ready to move out with our team at first light on Friday. We will plan to be out for two, possibly three weeks. At that time, we’ll return to Omaha and decide where to go from there in regard to your photographs and whether we see them as being of value to this endeavor.”

  Brenton nodded. His dream was about to come true. He felt an overwhelming gratitude toward God. Thank you, Father, he prayed silently. Thank you for seeing me through this time, and please let me know how to handle the situation at home.

  ——

  “You said yourself that transportation out of Omaha is expensive and difficult to come by,” Jordana said angrily. “You can’t simply sit there and make plans for me. I won’t have it.”

  “You can’t stay in this house by yourself. You’re barely eighteen.”

  “Women all over the country are staying in houses by themselves,” Jordana curtly replied. “That pesky little war back east has totally interfered with polite society rules.”

  Brenton shook his head, then took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “This is different. Those women stay alone out of necessity. Their husbands or fathers have gone to war, and they have no choice. You have a choice.”

  “Well, I’m not taking it. If you even try to send me away, Brenton Baldwin, I will cash in my ticket at the first available stop and head out for parts unknown. You’ll have no idea where I am or what I’m doing. How would that suit you?”

  Jordana suddenly felt almost sorry for her brother in spite of her ire. His expression was one of complete defeat. There seemed to be no working the matter out for him, and Jordana had no viable solution to offer.

  “What if you were to stay with another family?” Brenton proposed. He resecured his glasses and looked at her hopefully. “I could arrange for you to stay under the protection of someone like Mr. Chittenden and his wife, or maybe the Cavendish family, although I do not know them well.”

  “Why not just trust me to be able to handle myself here? What is it you’re afraid of—that I’ll show you up? That I’ll do just fine in your absence and not need you anymore?”

  Brenton looked away and sighed. “I’m afraid the ruffians who pour into this town will take advantage of you. I’m afraid you’ll find yourself compromised or killed, all because of your foolish pride. Jordana, it’s all well and fine that you’re grown up and that you have a job of some importance. It’s even perfectly acceptable to me that you make more money than I do and have provided us with this house via Mr. Chittenden’s generosity. But what is not acceptable is the possibility that in my absence you would be left at the mercy of every roaming bachelor who would choose you for a wife, or worse.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to worry about that,” Jordana replied smugly. “I know very well how to say no.”

  “But what about the ones who refuse to take no for an answer?”

  He had her there. She thought back unpleasantly to Zed Wilson’s attack and then to Damon’s own lustful advances. Sooner or later it was quite possible she’d find herself in a situation that wasn’t so easy to deal with.

  “I can’t just impose myself upon someone,” she finally replied.

  “Let me talk to Mr. Chittenden. He might well have a solution. After all, he and his wife live in that big house with no one but Damon to concern themselves with. And half the time, as is true of the present, Damon is gone away on business.”

  Jordana bit at her lower bit and thought of telling Brenton of the ruthless behavior she’d witnessed from Damon in the bank. But despite that, it was just as unseemly for her to live in the home of a suitor as it was to live alone.

  She looked at her brother’s hopeful face. She did not want to be the one to spoil his dreams. But she could not under any circumstances agree to stay at the Chittendens. Perhaps by confessing about Damon’s ardent and lustful advances, she could avoid that. On the other hand, it might also make Brenton decide that she must quit her job at the bank. But the other alternative seemed worse.

  “I can’t stay with the Chittendens,” she finally admitted.

  “Jordana, you are being unreasonable.”

  She shook her head. “No, I’m not. I had thought to save you from worry, but—”

  He eyed her with a hint of panic in his eyes. “But what? Has something happened that I should know about?”

  She nodded. “I suppose so, but remember, I took care of the problem, and that is the only reason I’m telling you this now. The situation is resolved and in the past, but I will not set myself up for further advances.”

  “By Damon Chittenden?”

  “Yes. Do you remember the day of our fight? The day I went out for that walk and didn’t get home until nearly dark?”

  “Yes.” His voice was steady and even, almost too controlled.

  “Damon saw me walking and picked me up for a carriage ride. We drove out to the river, and . . . well . . . he suggested marriage and other romantic notions, and I refused.”

  “Somehow I get the impression you aren’t telling me everything,” Brenton replied.

  Jordana could hear the strained patience in his voice. “Damon intends to see me as his wife. If you put me in the Chittenden home, you will leave me at his mercy. Perhaps he’d even consider compromising me to force the issue.”

  “He wouldn’t dare!”

  “He might,” Jordana replied, pressing the matter home. “He’s already tried to be more intimate than politeness would allow for. That’s why I was so late coming home that night. I jumped out of the carriage and sent him away.”

  “You walked back alone? All the way from the river?” Brento
n was clearly mortified.

  “No, silly,” Jordana laughed, trying to lighten the impact of her confession. “Captain O’Brian happened along about that time. He and his men were on detail in the area, and he walked back with me.”

  Brenton’s relief was evident. “All right. Your point is understood. Chittenden’s residence would not be an acceptable solution.”

  “And we are not close enough friends with anyone else of influence.”

  “What about the neighbors? Matt and Ann would have you stay with them in a minute.”

  “Brenton, the place has three rooms in total. They can’t afford to have me there. They simply haven’t room enough. Why not just let me stay here and have them check on me from time to time?”

  “I suppose that’s possible.” He appeared to consider this for several minutes, then got up and went for his hat. “I’ll go next door this minute and ask them about it.”

  Jordana smiled triumphantly and leaned back to await Brenton’s return. She had won the round, for she was sure that Matt and Ann would have no problem at all accepting responsibility to check in on her.

  “As if I needed a keeper,” she muttered under her breath.

  After nearly half an hour, Brenton returned. His face clearly warned her that things had not gone as they would have liked.

  “Matt is going west with the new army. He’s sending Ann and the kids down to St. Joseph to stay with Ann’s mother. He said someone tried to accost her on the street yesterday. It scared her badly, and she doesn’t want to be left alone in the city.”

  “How awful,” Jordana sighed as her own hope plummeted. Before she could speak again, Brenton had made his decision.

  “I’m taking you with me. I can’t leave you here to face this town alone. You can come along and help me with the pictures. You know some of the procedures, and you can learn the rest.”