Waiting in line to board, she watched the people around her. Reverend Landers at home had reminded her to watch out for thieves and pickpockets who preyed on travelers. In front of her the conductor assisted a white-haired lady with a cane up the steps, then a black-shawled woman with a young boy at her side. At least Colleen wasn’t the only woman traveling alone.
Once they were all seated and the train huffed and snorted its way out of the station, Colleen shook her head at all the streets with square little houses, many not nearly as big as her own. At least her house had an upper floor, while many of these did not.
The conductor came by and checked the tickets. As he moved down the aisle, the white-haired woman, whose black felt hat with a matching feather stayed in place, leaned across the armrest and waved to catch Colleen’s attention.
“Will you be getting off in St. Paul?”
Colleen shook her head. “I’m going to Medora in Dakotah Territory.”
“Oh, good. Since I am traveling clear to Seattle to visit my son, we have many miles ahead of us. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind humoring an old lady and taking time to chat. I have found that I make good friends when traveling like this.”
“You travel often?”
“This is my third trip west. My son wants me to move out there, but I would hate to leave Chicago.”
“Leaving home is difficult.” And that might be the biggest understatement she’d ever offered. The thought of her kitchen, warm with the fragrance of baking bread or ginger cookies, filled her with memories. “I’ve never gone more than a few miles from home before.”
“Oh, dear, this must be quite an adventure for you. Will you be visiting family?”
Colleen thought to the time ahead. If I can find him. “Hopefully.” She could see the curiosity fairly bristle the hat feather that curved over the back of the woman’s head. The hat remained firmly seated on an upswept coil, much like her own, only without the least trace of a propensity for escaping. Black jet gleamed on the collar and lapels of the fitted black traveling jacket. She was sure the skirt and jacket were made of wool serge, at far greater cost than anything she would even dream of owning.
“My name is Mrs. John Grant, but I prefer Agnes among friends. What is yours?”
Colleen almost said Colleen, but paused. “Amethyst Colleen O’Shaunasy. Miss.” From now on, for this brief portion of her life, she would be the woman her mother named her to be. At least I would like to be called Amethyst, but I’m sure it is going to take some time to get used to the new name. Amethyst. Formally Miss Amethyst O’Shaunasy. That did sound rather grand.
“Amethyst, what a lovely name. And you must be Irish by the sound of it, although I’m not surprised with all that luscious red hair and milky skin.”
Colleen, er, Amethyst put a hand to the side of her stubborn hair. Red? She’d thought it russet, not the true red of a real Irish colleen. Like she was a sepia painting instead of the real thing.
“Why, thank you.” Compliments had been about as scarce as hen’s teeth in her life, another saying of her mother’s. Questions buzzed within like the bees when she disturbed a hive. She could feel the heat of embarrassment climbing her neck. While this wasn’t a real lie, it most surely felt like one. What would her father say if he could hear her introduce herself like this? And her mother? Were the angels applauding her?
“So tell me why you are going to Medora. That place has been booming. An article I read in the paper said it was almost like the gold rush back in ’49. I was but a girl, but my father took me out to see the wagon trains heading west. I often wondered if there were any people left back east of Chicago, since so many were traveling westward.”
My, Mrs. Grant did love to chat. “I’m looking for my nephew.” Best to keep the details to herself—at least that’s what had been drummed into her since childhood. Although she’d often wondered what secrets her family had that were different than the others in Smithville Parish.
“Oh, really. Did he come west to work for Marquis de Mores?”
Amethyst considered whether or not to speak of the details. Mrs. Grant seemed truly interested, and Amethyst was enjoying the conversation…. Why not, she’d never see the woman again. “Hardly. He’s only eight. You see, my sister-in-law, my dead brother’s wife, left their son off with someone we didn’t know, who took Joel west. My father insists that since the boy is his only living heir, he should come back to the home farm.”
“Your father?”
“Yes.”
“Well, aren’t you a living relative?”
“Since women are not allowed to own land, he wants Joel back.”
“Pardon me, I wouldn’t want to gainsay your father, but times and laws are changing. I own property in Chicago, and I also own the farm of my grandfather. I bought it from a—and I quote—‘legal heir’ who was letting it run to ruin. My second son is in charge of the farming; my eldest son is a lawyer. It is my third son whom I’m going to visit.”
“Have you no daughters?”
“Alas, not that survived infancy. But I am blessed with daughters-in-law, one of whom usually travels with me, but this time she is indisposed.” She leaned closer with a chuckle. “What an idiotic term for pregnant. They say men usually have a case of the wanderlust, but in our family, it is I.”
Amethyst could not help but smile back. Never had she met someone like this Mrs. Grant. But then, never before had she done many of the things she was now doing.
“Go ahead. I can tell you are dying to ask me something.”
“Your husband, is he…I mean…?”
“Mr. Grant died, I believe from overwork, some ten years ago. But he had the wisdom and foresight to make certain that I would inherit all of our businesses and assets. Some of our friends were shocked, but our sons feel as I do. If a woman has the intelligence and the education, she should be allowed to do whatever she is able. And we women are far smarter, wiser, and more capable than most men give us credit for.”
Amethyst thought back to how hard she worked on the farm and how she sold the surplus, yet her father had the final say in all things. She was no more than a hired hand, one who received no pay.
Mrs. Grant smiled sweetly, as if the words she’d uttered were not even seditious. “Don’t you agree with me? You look like an extremely capable woman, and if you’ve had any schooling…” She paused, waiting for an answer.
“Thanks to my mother, who insisted—against my father’s wishes—I attended our local schoolhouse through the eighth grade. He thought six years of not helping all day, every day, were enough.” Actually, he’d resented any of his children going to school at all but knew his sons had to have schooling if they were to better themselves and, hopefully, help provide for their pa.
“Ah, your mother is a wise woman.”
“Was. She died five years ago, and there isn’t a day goes by that I don’t think of her, her sayings, how hard she worked and yet managed to have a song and a smile.” Amethyst thought to the coins in her hem, the Bible that weighted her carpetbag, and the small gown, so lovingly stitched and embroidered. “So many gifts she managed to give me.”
“And do you take after her?”
Amethyst thought for a bit. “You know, I never thought about it, but I guess that I do.”
“Why don’t you come sit over here by me, and it will be easier for us to visit? I knew there was a reason I chose these double seats.”
Surprising herself, Amethyst pulled her carpetbags out from under the seat and, one at a time, shoved them under the other. By the time she finished, her hat hung down over her ear and her hair had won and cascaded down her back. She rolled her eyes, settling herself in the seat.
“I should just braid it and wrap the braids around my head, but—”
Mrs. Grant cocked her head like a bright-eyed chickadee. “No, the way you wear it suits you. It would be a shame for all of you to be so confined.”
“Pardon me?”
“Ah, my dear, in your ha
ir I see the spirit inside you that wants to break free.”
Amethyst stared at her, for once not even bothering to try to save her hat. Instead, she pulled out the pin and, with hat in hand, wove the long hatpin back into the felt. She shook her head, then using her fingers, since she refused to be digging in her case for her brush and comb, twisted her hair and pinned it again on top of her head.
“I once saw a beautiful woman, Chinese I imagine, who wore her long hair in a coil held in place by two ebony sticks. I always wished I could find sticks like that, for she looked so regal. Instead, I use combs.” Mrs. Grant touched an ivory comb that peeked out from under the pert hat. “Hmm. I think I have extras.” With a lift of her eyebrows and a widening of her eyes, she turned and opened the clasp on a leather case beside her on the seat. Humming a little tune, she sorted through things, using her fingers for her eyes. “Here we go.” She pulled a drawstring pouch from the case, opened the neck, and retrieved two amber-colored combs. “These will look quite lovely in your hair.”
“But I can’t, I mean…” Amethyst pushed her spine tight against the seat back. “You can’t just give things to a stranger like this.”
“Whyever not?” Mrs. Grant looked from the combs to Amethyst and back. “Of course, if you don’t like them…”
“No, that’s not it at all. They are beautiful, but…” Snatch them, clutch them, the voice in her head screamed at her.
“Ah.” Mrs. Grant pursed her lips and gave an emphatic nod that set the feather bobbing. “Now, let me see if I understand this. I have two combs that are not being used, and if the truth be told, I have many more at home. I want to give them to a friend of mine, and for some reason known only to her, she is looking at me as if I offered her a live mouse.”
Amethyst rolled her lips to keep from chuckling out loud. Mice were the last thing she’d thought of. The desire of owning something so lovely made her mouth dry. Whoever had made the combs had carved a design into the bar of the comb. Her fingers ached to feel the cool comb in the palm of her hand. “If there were something I could do in exchange.”
“Why, you’ve been doing something for me ever since we left the station.”
“What?”
“Helping me enjoy my journey.” She reached over and took Amethyst’s hand in her own and placed the combs in the palm. “There now. They are yours, and we’ll hear no more about it.”
“Thank you.” Amethyst gazed at the treasures in her hand. A lovely color, like apple cider that had been sitting for a time and its bubbles were just beginning to rise. She held the combs closer to the window to see the engraving. Simple, like the fronds of the ferns that grew in the deep shade of the trees down by the creek.
“Do you know how to use them?”
“Not really.” How backward she must think me. Father God, you have given me a gift in this woman, and I promise to learn from her all that I can.
“Like this. You hold the comb so the curved side is out, then set it against the hair. If you set it with the hair, it will fall out and be totally useless.”
Amethyst twisted her hair in a rope, rolled it around her hand, and tucked the end under the coil, then settled one of the combs into the side. When it slipped, she did it again, and this time it held. She set the other one on the left side and tipped her head gently from side to side. Her hair didn’t shift.
She tucked the three hairpins she’d been so careful not to lose into her reticule. “At home I wore a scarf tied round my head to keep my hair back when I was working.” She didn’t say that she’d found her hat in a box someone sent to the church for the minister’s family. Mrs. Landers had insisted she take it, for no proper woman went without a hat.
Not that she’d ever been proper.
The next day they had several hours to wait in St. Paul for their westbound train, so Mrs. Grant insisted that they have a meal in the restaurant at the station.
“But I…I cannot do that.”
“Ah, but you don’t understand. You have become my traveling companion, and I might need your assistance, so you must humor an old lady and join her for dinner.” Agnes locked her arm through Amethyst’s and guided her in the direction of tables covered in white cloths and a man who snapped to attention when he saw Mrs. Grant.
“We’d like a table for two—and not by the kitchen.”
“Yes, madam.” He turned and led the way to a table that had a padded bench on one side and a chair on the other. “Will this be acceptable?”
Mrs. Grant smiled at her companion. “Will this suit?”
Amethyst wet her lips. “Of course.” If only her father could see her now.
Several hours later, with the train rocking its way across western Minnesota, Amethyst found herself swallowing and swallowing again. Bile rose in the back of her throat, and her stomach roiled like the creek in spring freshet.
“Are you feeling all right?”
“I’ll be fine, thank you.”
“How long since you had eaten?”
“I had some bread with me.”
“Perhaps the beef was too rich.”
“Perhaps.” A shiver started at her feet and worked its way upward. She pulled her coat around her, even though they weren’t that far from the potbellied stove and the air was not cold. Her stomach cramped and, before she could clamp her hand over her mouth, erupted. She twisted her head so that the vomit missed Mrs. Grant, but the stink and the mess of it made Amethyst want to die. What would her benefactress think now?
CHAPTER FIVE
Surely death would be better than this.
The train rocking made even opening her eyes a risky business.
“Amethyst, dear, do you think you can drink some water?” Mrs. Grant leaned forward from the facing seat and wiped the perspiration from Amethyst’s face. The cool cloth brought only momentary relief.
Amethyst thought to shake her head but, having suffered the consequences of responding to a query like that once before, chose to try to speak instead. Her “No, thank you” came out as an indecipherable croak.
She heard two people talking but couldn’t focus enough to understand what they were saying. Never in her life had she been so sick. Ah, Ma, how I need you. Her belly cramped again, but there was nothing to come up. Lord God, please take me home. I cannot endure this. She fell back in the deep pit of near unconsciousness, Mrs. Grant’s conversation just at the edge of her awareness.
“You are going to have to take her off at Fargo, Mrs. Grant. If she is contagious, all the other passengers are in danger.”
“If I find a place to take care of her, will the train wait for me?”
“You’d have to catch tomorrow’s train, ma’am.”
“I see. She is far too weak to walk. Is there someone who will assist us?”
“Once we arrive in Fargo, I’ll talk to the ticket agent and see if he can find a wagon or a buggy. The doctor has some beds at his house. Perhaps he will take her in. There are hotels too and several boardinghouses. One of them might be able to help you.” He stopped for a moment. “She isn’t really your traveling companion, is she?”
“Not really. We struck up a conversation and went together for dinner in St. Paul. She fell sick not long after that.”
“So you have no responsibility for her, then?”
“No, none other than that of Christian charity. I cannot just leave her.”
“Others might. You are a gracious woman. As soon as I find some help, I’ll let you know.”
“Have you by any chance checked to see if there is a doctor on board?”
“Yes. There’s none on this trip. Not so many people travel in the winter, you know.”
“All right, then. Well, thank you.”
Amethyst opened her eyes to see Mrs. Grant sponging her face again.
“We’ll be getting off in Fargo, Amethyst dear, so that we can find medical attention for you.”
Amethyst blinked and shook her head the slightest. “N-no.” Her throat burned as though sh
e’d swallowed a live coal. Her head throbbed, keeping time with the clacking wheels.
“Do not fear. I’m not going to leave you.”
“W-wa-ter.”
“Of course, but just a sip.” Mrs. Grant held a cup to her charge’s lips, but when the liquid dribbled down the side of her face, she slid an arm behind Amethyst’s neck and propped her with one arm, tipping the cup with her other hand. The train lurched and liquid spilled again, but Amethyst got enough in her mouth to swallow.
“M-more?”
They repeated the routine again and were a bit more successful. The cool liquid eased the fire in her throat, and Amethyst managed the barest hint of a smile.
The conductor stopped at Mrs. Grant’s seat. “Fargo is just ahead. I’ll get the others off and then find someone and come back for you.”
“Thank you so much.”
He walked on through the car and headed out the door at the end.
Amethyst tried to rouse when she felt strong arms lift her from the train seat. What was going on? Where were they taking her? She ordered her mouth to ask questions, but her tongue failed, and only guttural sounds came out.
“You’ll be fine, miss.” The male voice echoed as much in the rumble of his chest as in her hearing.
She’d be fine. What is wrong with me? I’m going to…to… She couldn’t even remember the place she was bound for. Why not take her home? Where was she?
Cold bit her nose and cheeks. Bright sunlight closed her eyes. Strong arms, like bands, held her tight, and then her benefactor set her on the seat of a buggy. In spite of her desire to stay upright, she slipped sideways until she fell against a soft cushion. Mrs. Grant wrapped her arms around her.
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