The dream changed to an all-too-familiar nightmare, but one Ellie hadn’t had for years. The sounds of San Francisco and the San Joaquin Valley changed to childish voices, taunting and cruel: “You ain’t nothing, Ellianna Stoddard. Neither’s your Pa. Trash, that’s what you are—and you ain’t never gonna be nothin’ else.”
The cry of a coyote awakened Ellie, mocking as the voices in her dream. Instead of the sickening feeling that had always followed the dream, however, determination flooded through her. “You’re wrong about me,” she fiercely whispered to the haunting voices. “With God’s help, I’ll show you, San Francisco—and the world.”
Her mind raced. Her purpose grew. “I’m going to work hard and become everything Edward and Mrs. Stanhope promised: rich, famous, and a blessing to others. I had enough trouble as a child to be called Job’s granddaughter. This is my chance to have people look up to me, not down on me. I will learn to be a wife of whom Josh can be proud.”
When Ellie again fell asleep, no dreams troubled her. She awoke resolved to carry out the vow she had made in the night hours—and sent word to the Stanhopes she was willing to leave Madera.
Two days later Ellie shook the dust of her past off her new, stylish boots and left for San Francisco with Mrs. Stanhope and Edward.
Ellie bade Josh a heart-wrenching good-bye. When he clasped her hands as if he’d never let her go, Ellie wanted to fling herself into his arms, regardless of the crowd at the station. Only the desire to become worthy of the unguarded love shining in Josh’s eyes kept Ellie true to her course. The last thing she saw when the train wheels began their clackety-clack to carry her away was Josh waving from the steps of Christ the Way Church. Tim stood beside him, somber faced and with arms crossed.
Ellie’s vision blurred. For one wild moment, she longed to cry out, “Stop the train!” Instead, she raised her chin, set her face toward the west, and didn’t look back.
seventeen
Ellie glanced around the passenger coach. She stifled a giggle, but her eyes stung. How different this was from the common car in which she and Tim had huddled on their trip from St. Louis to California! She closed her eyes and pictured two frightened children facing an unknown future. There had been no gingerbread trimmings, no polished brass lamps hanging from the ceiling. Certainly no stained-glass transoms to reflect rainbow colors across the rich, plush seats.
She thought of the dining car with its spotless white tablecloths and well-trained attendants. She and Tim had been too timid to even sneak a peek into the dining car when they came to Madera. Ellie forced the comparisons out of her mind. That was then. This is now.
“Well, we’re on our way,” Edward said.
His laugh and resemblance to Josh sent a twinge through Ellie. Oh dear! Only a few miles lie between the speeding train and home, and I’m already missing Josh. This will never do. She dismissed the thought and put on a bright smile. “Yes.”
Mrs. Stanhope settled herself more firmly in her seat. “We need to talk about you, Ellie.” She raised one eyebrow. “The first thing we’ll do when we get home is take you to a good hairdresser and modiste.” She gave Ellie’s well-cut traveling gown a nod of approval. “Your clothing is fine for Madera, but San Francisco fashion demands—”
“Hang San Francisco fashion!” Edward cut in. “You’re not going to turn the Sierra Songbird into a bird of paradise.”
Ellie gaped, unable to believe her own ears, but Edward wasn’t through.
“Look at Ellie, Mother. See how her hair curls under at the nape of her neck? And the way her soft bangs curve across her forehead? It makes her look like a page from the days of knights and ladies.” His eyes sparkled. “When she sings, she must wear simple, tunic-style dresses that highlight her uniqueness.”
Mrs. Stanhope bridled, and her mouth set in a stubborn line. “As if you know about fashion and the proper dress for ladies!”
“I know what will set the Sierra Songbird apart.” Edward stroked his chin with long elegant fingers. “Yellow. Lots of yellow, like sunlight and the meadowlark’s breast. Surely your fancy dressmaker can create a costume such as I’ve described.
“We’re also not going to let some music professor turn Ellie into an opera singer. Her charm is in who she is. A few lessons in proper breathing will be all she needs.” A gleam brightened his eyes. “Ellie, do you play guitar? Do you know some old ballads?”
Ellie blinked. What on earth …? “One of our Mexican workers taught me to play the guitar, and I know dozens of ballads. I’ve even written a few.”
Edward crossed his arms and donned a satisfied smile. “Good! I’ll usually accompany you on the piano, but a guitar will be perfect for some of your songs.”
Mrs. Stanhope clapped her gloved hands. For the first time, Ellie saw the older woman show genuine excitement and delight. “You’re getting back to your music, Edward? I am so happy.”
Ellie caught a glimpse beneath Mrs. Stanhope’s outward surface. A true mother’s heart beat in her tightly corseted body, at least as far as Edward was concerned. The recognition went a long way toward helping Ellie warm up to her patroness.
She sighed, wishing Mrs. Stanhope could accept Josh for who he was. Her wish gave birth to a question: What if God was leading her to San Francisco for a greater purpose than fame and fortune? A purpose even more important than ministering to others with her voice? The prayer of the thirteenth-century monk, Saint Francis of Assisi, came to mind. Ellie had written a simple guitar accompaniment and often sang the timeless words:
Lord, make me an instrument of Thy peace;
where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury, pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
and where there is sadness, joy.
Ellie’s heart filled to overflowing. I still want to be someone, Lord, she prayed, but the greatest gift I could ever bring to Joshua would be reconciliation with his family. Help me sow seeds that You may cause to grow.
Mrs. Stanhope’s voice grated into Ellie’s prayer. “One thing. Don’t worry about expenses. As your sponsor, I am happy to take care of your needs.”
Ellie raised her chin, feeling a red tide sweep into her face. “Thank you, Mrs. Stanhope, but that won’t be necessary. Matt and Seth gave me ample funds to carry me until I can begin to earn my own way.”
“That will be sooner than you think,” Edward promised. “We’ll start by having you sing at Bayview Christian.”
Josh’s church. Ellie’s mouth went dry. How could she sing to a congregation she suspected was waiting for their former preacher to come to his senses and return?
“Trust Me.”
The words that had brought her through good times and bad stilled Ellie’s trembling hands. God knew what He was doing. All she had to do was cling to His promise to never leave or forsake her. Ellie jerked her attention back to what Edward was saying.
“After that, we’ll let it be known you’re available for home musicales and soirees.”
Dazzled by the glittering future he painted, Ellie felt her enthusiasm rise to match Edward’s. Not to be outdone, his mother broke into the plans.
“I have a splendid idea!” Her face glowed. “Ellie, when you feel ready, we’ll have you do a benefit concert for the Occidental Mission Home for Girls.” Sadness replaced her joy. “It’s too bad there has to be such a place, but thank God for Margaret Culbertson. She rescues young Chinese girls from slavery or worse.”
Mrs. Stanhope set her lips in a grim line. “Desperate parents in Canton, China, sell their daughters for less than forty dollars each. Countless other girls, some only six or seven, are kidnapped and hidden aboard ships. Once they reach America, they are smuggled into San Francisco and other ports.”
“How can they get past immigration?” Ellie protested. A lump came to her throat, thinking of those unfortunate girls. What she had suffered at Gus’
s hands was nothing compared with the girls’ plight.
Edward gave a scornful laugh. “Immigration officials can be bribed. The Chinese slave traders pretend to be the girls’ relatives. They carry false papers that let them smuggle the girls into Chinatown, which is only a few blocks from Nob Hill, where we live. The girls are abused and forced to work such long hours many of them don’t last long. They’re called the ‘Children of Darkness,’ and live without hope.”
He clenched his fists. “I’d like to get my hands on some of those yellow slavers! They’re the scourge of San Francisco. They bribe police officers to cover up for them. Many lawyers work pro bono on the girls’ behalf, but it’s often impossible to obtain justice. San Francisco is a beautiful city. Many good people live in Chinatown, but it also holds opium dens, and the yellow slave trade is an indelible stain.”
Ellie shuddered. What kind of place was this?
Mrs. Stanhope took up the story. “They hate Margaret Culbertson. She established the Mission Home on the very edge of Chinatown in 1874 and began raids into its dark heart. She’s saved many girls from bondage. Margaret cares for their spiritual as well as their physical needs. She’s one of the most courageous women I’ve ever met. I wish I could be more like her.”
Edward patted his mother’s plump hand. “You do a great deal. It takes money to keep the Occidental Mission Home going. You’re tops at shaming some of our miserly leading citizens into making donations.”
Her eyes twinkled. “Only because they get their names listed in the paper.”
Ellie fell silent. She had never met anyone like this society matron. Mrs. Stanhope’s warmhearted concern for the Chinese girls appeared at odds with her obvious desire for recognition. Perhaps she believed she’d been divinely appointed to carry out on earth the plans God made in heaven.
Edward, identical to Joshua in looks, also seemed a mass of contradictions. His bringing his mother to Madera to find a singer didn’t make sense to Ellie. She pondered it while the train continued its headlong rush toward the City by the Bay. But when they left the train and boarded the ferry at Oakland, everything except her surroundings fled from Ellie’s mind.
Fog hung low over San Francisco Bay, so thick she could barely see the opposite shore. Whitecaps kicked against the ferry. Ellie’s nostrils twitched from the unfamiliar smell of salt. “It’s not much like the Mississippi River,” she mumbled, then put one hand over her mouth, thankful that the chill breeze whipped away her words. Nobody in San Francisco knew her as anyone other than Ellie Sterling. She needed to guard her tongue and keep it that way.
A mournful whistle blew. Edward helped the women off the ferry. Ellie gaped at the crowded dock and streets. Pushcarts jostled carriages. Peddlers offered their wares, screaming at the top of their lungs. Ellie shrank against Mrs. Stanhope while Edward secured a rig and said, “Nob Hill, driver.” They climbed inside. The sound of horses’ hooves clattering over the cobbled streets made Ellie homesick for Calico. Oh, to be back riding the range instead of in the midst of such confusion!
There was so much to see that Ellie soon forgot everything but San Francisco. The streets went up and up until it seemed they would reach the sky. A cable car clanged its way down a steep hill.
“I’ll take you on the cable car someday,” Edward promised.
Excitement filled Ellie. “Thank you.”
They reached the top of the hill and climbed another. At last the coach stopped in front of a large, imposing house. Ellie smothered a nervous giggle. The dark brick Stanhope mansion, with its turrets, lace-curtained bay windows, fancy iron scrollwork, and balconies resembled a haughty, aging queen squatting on a throne, looking down on everyone else. Could a simple rancher’s daughter ever feel at home here?
The ornate front door opened. Ellie expected a uniformed butler, but a smiling, gray-haired replica of Edward and Josh came down the steps, hands outstretched. “Welcome to our home, Miss Sterling. I’m glad you’re here.”
Ellie looked into Charles Stanhope’s steady eyes and shyly put her hand in his. The cold knot that had parked where her heart should be ever since they boarded the ferry left. No matter what lay ahead, she’d found a friend … perhaps even an ally, if needed.
eighteen
From the time Ellie met Beryl Westfield, Edward’s dark-haired fiancée seized every opportunity to belittle Ellie when they were alone. Yet in public, she fairly oozed sweetness and light toward “our Sierra Songbird.”
“Don’t pay any attention to Beryl,” Edward advised Ellie one day after walking in while Beryl was making a snide comment.
Beryl glared at him and rushed out, but Edward only laughed.
“Her nose is out of joint because she pursued Josh before we got engaged. She couldn’t get him. Beryl is thirty-two, five years older than we are; almost old enough to be your mother. Besides, she’s also upset because I’ve mended my lazy ways in favor of promoting you and practicing.”
Edward frowned. “Josh tries to like Beryl for my sake, but it’s rough going.” He clasped his hands behind his head. “Sometimes I don’t like her either.”
Ellie gasped. “You’re going to marry someone you don’t like?”
Edward had the grace to look ashamed. “I need a wife.” A glint came into his gray eyes. “Too bad I didn’t see you before my brother did!”
“Please don’t talk like that, Edward.” Ellie took a deep breath. “You mustn’t marry anyone you don’t love with all your heart.”
“Is that the way you feel about Josh?”
Ellie sensed that a great deal hung on her answer. She could not give an evasive reply. “Yes, Edward, but it’s between us and God, not you. And especially not Beryl. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to practice.”
“Wait, Ellie.” Edward caught at her sleeve. “Don’t hold it against me for asking. Comparing a girl like you with Beryl Westfield makes a man wonder.”
His comment troubled Ellie, but anxiety over her first public appearance in San Francisco left little time to worry about Edward.
At last the big day came. Ellie’s knees shook as she left the Stanhope pew and started to the front of Bayview Christian Church. The distance up the richly carpeted aisle loomed longer than the miles that stretched between Madera and the Diamond S. She felt sweat trickle inside her gloved hands and smoothed down her pale yellow sleeves. Would her wobbly knees be able to carry her up the richly carpeted aisle? Would a single note come out of her parched throat? Why had she agreed to make her San Francisco debut in Joshua’s church? Far better to have first sung at a home musicale.
“Trust Me.”
The unspoken reminder blunted the edge of Ellie’s fear. Her throat cleared. She walked to her place beside the organ, turned, and faced the congregation.
“‘It Is Well with My Soul’ is my favorite hymn. Before I sing, I want you to know how the song came to be written.” She paused. For a moment the richly colored stained-glass windows changed to clear glass in her mind. Sunlight streamed through them into Christ the Way Church and bathed Joshua Stanhope in its golden rays.
The image faded, but it had strengthened Ellie. She clasped her hands and said, “Horatio Spafford was a remarkable man. He, his wife, and four young daughters lived in Chicago….” Ellie saw quickening interest replace the expressions of boredom and curiosity on the faces turned toward her. When she finished the story, she nodded to the organist. He struck a single note, and Ellie’s bell-like tones rang throughout the cathedral.
“When peace, like a river, attendeth my way …” Her voice soared with triumph, just as it had when she sang in Christ the Way. “It is well … with my soul…. It is well, it is well with my soul.”
With my soul echoed back from the vaulted ceiling. Ellie looked at the Stanhope pew. Mr. Stanhope wore a look of peace that thrilled her heart. If no one else had been touched, he had. Tears coursed down Mrs. Stanhope’s cheeks. Had she also been inspired by the song? Ellie’s gaze turned to Edward. She saw approval in his eyes and
a softening in his face. It made Edward look more like his twin than ever.
The fourth occupant of the pew looked neither exalted nor touched by the story and song. Beryl Westfield, gowned in the latest fashion, raised one haughty eyebrow and pursed her lips when Ellie walked back to the pew. Ellie’s joy at the congregation’s obvious approval dwindled. The enmity in the older woman’s face made her shudder. She hadn’t faced such dislike since the days of being taunted for being Gus’s daughter. She hated the feelings Beryl stirred up. Everyone else she’d met in San Francisco had been kind. Must there always be a serpent to spoil the Garden of Eden?
Busy trying to overcome her resentment, Ellie barely heard the choir’s final presentation and the benediction. She returned to reality when the Reverend Michael Yates, Josh’s red-haired substitute, reached her. “Smashing, Miss Sterling. Absolutely smashing.” Admiration shone in his hazel eyes. “What a team we make—you with your singing; I with my preaching!”
Edward made a choking sound. Ellie wanted to poke him. No matter how pompous Michael sounded, as a minister he deserved respect. Not wanting to encourage him, she said, “I’m glad you liked my song.” Michael Yates had made his lofty ambitions clear at their first meeting. He’d also done everything but add how proud he’d be to have the Sierra Songbird help him climb the ladder to success.
Even if there were no Joshua, I couldn’t care for this man,
Ellie thought. He appears far more interested in how rapidly he can rise than in being God’s servant and leading souls to Christ. How different Michael Yates was from Josh, who had walked away from the position Michael obviously coveted.
Josh crumpled the third version of a letter to Ellie and tossed it toward the big woodstove in the parsonage. He missed his target, just as he missed Ellie. She’d only been gone a few weeks, but it seemed like forever. Josh pulled the single letter she’d written to him from the pocket above his heart, smoothed out the creases, and spread the pages on his table. Worn from many readings, they threatened to fall apart. He read the words he had already memorized:
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