by Diane Noble
After I bought a ticket for Saint Louis, I walked to McKenna’s store and replaced my lost belongings. Then, I again visited the First Savings and Trust. Nab Quarrie stood behind the teller window, his visor low over his eyes. With a deep breath, I approached him again.
He recognized me and smiled. No other customers were in the bank.
“It is important,” I began without preamble, “that Mr. Deforest not discover I have been here. Should he come back, that is.”
He cocked his head as if puzzling my words.
I drew in a deep breath, willing courage to flow through my bones. “Selah Jones vouched for me once. She would again. Regarding this request, I mean.”
He frowned. “What if your husband comes to collect the money? What am I supposed to tell him?”
What I’d asked of him was illegal, which shamed me. I let my gaze drift away from his eyes, feeling the threat of welling tears. “Tell him whatever you like,” I said with a sigh and turned to walk away, my sorrows and worries weighing heavy. “I’m sorry I asked such a thing of you.”
“Oh, balderdash!” The shout came from behind the counter just as I reached the door.
I turned to look back. Nab Quarrie had knocked over an inkwell. The dark liquid was spreading quickly across the ledger. He stood, glaring at the mess, hands on hips. “Sometimes I can be so clumsy!”
He grabbed a blotter and began to dab at the large book, shaking his head slowly. “Well, I declare,” he said. “I can see all the day’s transactions but one.”
I smiled at him. “ ’Tis a crying shame.”
Nineteen
St. Louis
July 8, 1887
Dearest Welsie,
I am hurrying to you as quickly as I can. I am sitting in the train station in Saint Louis, waiting to board the next train heading west. I will be in California in a matter of days. This letter may not reach you before I do, but in the event it does, I wanted you to know I’m coming.
The family history you want to tell me is a secondary concern in my heart next to your health, and to my seeing you for the first time. I’ve many times wondered what our relationship is beyond friendship. I know there is a connection, and I suspect that we are kin, but beyond that I won’t guess. I’ll wait patiently for you to tell me when we meet at last.
I also won’t speak yet of how I’ve come to be traveling west—it wasn’t what you’d planned or offered for me. It’s a long story, an emotional and not entirely happy one. It also needs to be told when we’re sitting face to face.
Quite by accident I met Selah Jones in Dover Town. As we were parting she sent her love to you. She also said that you are blood kin, sisters. How my imagination goes wild with that word—the idea that she might also be related to me, for I love her dearly. But then, my imagination is getting ahead of the story you have to tell me.
You have been a friend like no other, Welsie True, full of love and acceptance, from the time I held your first letter in my hand till now. Hold on to life, beloved friend, for I am hurrying to you.
With affection, both family and friendship, I remain
Your,
Fairwyn March
Outside Santa Fe, New Mexico
July 14, 1886
My beloved Welsie,
Again I am unable to sleep. My car is crowded and noisy even at midnight, with children fussing and crying and their mothers whispering comfort. In front, four men play cards, hooting and hollering and swearing and smoking, and beside me an old man snores. We are passing through the Rocky Mountains, and the train sways this way and that. So forgive my splotches of ink and shaky writing.
By the light of a small gas lamp near my seat, I will begin another letter to you, beseeching you again to live with the hope of my coming.
I have so much to ask you, so much to tell. I especially want to speak of forgiveness and mercy, for your words through the years have been steeped in wisdom.
Welsie, I have done things recently that cause nightmares to plague me. I have wandered down a path that at the time seemed reasonable enough, even justified, and now I am filled with doubt and remorse. I have told you that I feared I made a mistake in marrying Zeb, and now I have left him under circumstances that cause my heart to ache with the knowledge that I will always remain unforgiven, by God, by Zeb, by myself.
No matter how hard I try, it seems, I fall short of my intentions. When I try to make things better (which truly isn’t often), I fall on my face in shame and error.
Welsie, how I long to sit at your feet and learn from you. I pray that day will be soon.
It saddens me to put down my pen, but I must. The car is rattling through tunnels and around curves, making it difficult to form even a single word.
With love, I remain
Your devoted,
Fairwyn March
The train rounded a long curve as it passed through Cajon Pass. We had just crossed the most barren land I had ever seen—hot, arid, filled with salt flats and dark rock formations. It could have been the moon for its lack of resemblance to anything I had ever seen on earth.
The car was as hot as an oven now, and little children whimpered to their mothers and daddies about being thirsty and hot. Three women near me looked miserable in their gussied-up dresses, and two men, sitting in the row behind, had removed their jackets long before we crossed the desert. The air in the car was fetid from sweat, and I kept my scented handkerchief to my nose to block the smells.
Even so, I could not help leaning forward in anticipation, peering through the open window as we descended into a long, golden brown valley. California!
The train wound around a switchback, then another, through a formation of red-brown boulders and at last headed down onto the valley floor. The sun now was in its downward arch, visible in front of the train, turning the tracks silver. We headed west, toward the ocean, and my heart caught in my throat imagining it.
A dozen times in the next hours I checked for my belongings, patting my small satchel to make certain it was still beside me. The whistle blew as we headed through several small villages, but the train did not stop. Soon I saw the dusty town of Los Angeles straight ahead.
Everyone in the car fell silent, even the children, staring through the windows as the train rattled and clanked along the tracks and the whistle blew up front. A layer of lavender haze hung above the ground, and a small orange ball of a sun was slipping quickly behind the squat buildings.
“So this is California,” I sighed, mostly to myself.
The woman seated next to me laughed. It was a contagious sound, and I looked up to be greeted by a merry, round face. “In all its dusty glory.” Her husband, a balding man sitting on the other side of the bench, chuckled with her.
I was surprised I was overheard and turned with a smile. I’d seen the couple board in Santa Fe, but until our last water stop they’d been seated at the rear of the car.
“This your first trip here?” the woman asked pleasantly.
“It is.”
Her husband leaned forward with a friendly smile. “Where are you from?”
“Oak Hill, North Carolina,” I said without hesitation.
Their smiles brightened at the same instant I realized my error. “Ah yes,” the man said. “I know it well. Used to know someone at the college there—what is it again?”
“Providence,” I whispered, a feeling of dread fear coming over me. “Providence College.” I was twisting my wedding ring on my third finger, and looking down, quickly covered it with my opposite hand.
“We’re Eliza and Alexander Roget,” the woman said, sticking out her hand. “But you can call my husband Doc. Everyone does.”
“Nice to meet you both,” I said quietly.
“Oh me, what was the fellow’s name?” Alexander Roget frowned. “Met him in Washington a couple of years ago.” He turned to his wife. “You remember, don’t you, El? Heavyset man, graying at the temples? He sat in on the council to study female diseases.”
&
nbsp; “He teaches at Providence?” I ventured, searching my memory for one of the professors who might fit the description.
The train was slowing now as the station came into view.
“What was his name?” Alexander Roget paid no mind to the approaching station, so fixed was he on the name he had forgotten.
Eliza rolled her eyes at her husband while smiling at me. “Once Doc gets something in his craw, he can’t give it up. He never forgets a face, but sometimes names can elude him.” She hesitated. “By the way, dear, you didn’t give us yours. Your name, that is.”
“Fairwyn,” I said, “Fairwyn March De—” I halted just in time. Eliza did not notice, for at the same moment I spoke, the train screeched to a halt in a blast of steam. “Fairwyn March,” I repeated more confidently when she could hear me again.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Eliza said, pumping my hand again. “Such an unusual name.”
Doc chuckled as he shook my hand. “Fairwyn March. Now that’s one I promise I will not forget. One of the loveliest I’ve ever heard.” His smile was genuine.
People were milling in the aisles now, gathering their valises, travel boxes, and small trunks. The car was a mass of laughter, chatter, and confusion. I placed my hat above my knot of hair, pinned it into place, and picked up my two valises.
I had just started down the aisle to the door, when Doc called out above the hubbub. “Fairwyn March! I just remembered the name!” He wove in and out of the people between us, finally reaching me.
The look on his face was triumphant. “Gerald Hamilton! Do you know him?”
Now Eliza was standing by him, loaded down with valises and satchels. “And his lovely wife is Letitia. Very dignified, lovely woman, wasn’t she, dear?” She glanced up at her husband, who was nodding vigorously.
The conductor called for the passengers to disembark. I stared into their faces as the ramifications settled in. Gerald Hamilton was a faculty colleague of Zeb’s. We had seen the Hamiltons socially a few times. They had attended our wedding. One word to Gerald from Doc or his wife—should they meet again—would be passed along to Zeb. My deception would be discovered.
“Are you all right, dear?” Doc stepped closer, looking worried. “You look flushed.”
“Just feeling lightheaded,” I said, leaning against the back of a nearby horsehair bench. “That’s all.”
“It’s been a long journey,” Eliza said, touching my arm as if to steady me.
I laughed weakly. “Longer than you know.”
“Let us help you to your connecting train.” Doc took my two valises and led the way down the aisle to the door. “Where did you say you’re going?”
More information for them to pass along. I blinked, and cleared my throat. No easy lie came to me. “San Juan,” I said shakily.
“A lovely destination,” Doc said. “You must visit the mission. Though it’s in great need of restoration, it’s in one of the fairest settings of the entire chain.”
Within minutes they had helped me find the right track. They placed the valises beside me, and Doc pulled out his pocket watch. “You have a few minutes.”
“Thank you for your help.” I hesitated. “You don’t need to wait.”
Doc and Eliza said their good-byes and walked a few steps down the platform. Then Doc touched Eliza’s arm, and they halted, only to turn again and wave.
I waved back, but worry flooded my heart. One word written to Gerald Hamilton about me would crush my plans, for it surely would be repeated to Zeb. I stared after them, long after they disappeared into the twilight mists.
“Aye, but to be sure,” came floating into my heart in Poppy’s rich mountain tenor, “yer sins will find ye out.”
A train’s mournful whistle sounded in the distance, and I turned to watch the roaring approach of the steam engine. But instead of elation at the sight of the train that would take me to a place I’d dreamed about for years, I felt only a catch in my heart.
Here I was worried about telling a small untruth to Doc and Eliza when my whole life from the moment I decided to remain dead was one big lie. I swallowed hard and picked up the valises as the train halted in a cloud of steam.
The three-passenger-car train was the last of the day to San Diego. I was one of only a dozen or so passengers in my car. Wearily, I sat down upon my horsehair bench seat and leaned back, my knuckles white where I clutched the satchel handle. My valises were close beside me, one on either side.
Darkness was complete, but I stared through the window, wondering what lay beyond. The unseen ocean, stretching into the horizon, likely would be close enough to touch. The gulls roosted on roofs and in the sycamore trees. They would rise into the sky at dawn, calling and crying, just as Welsie True had told me. I would run barefoot through the sand, arms outspread, rejoicing in the wonder of my new world, my new freedom.
Then why did my heart not leap with joy?
I leaned my head back against the seat and closed my eyes, feeling a familiar ache creep into my heart. An ache for something I could not identify. A call to something I did not know.
Puzzled, I sat up and stared again into the darkness. It was as dense as my own future. I shuddered and turned away. What if the peace I sought could not be found? Here or anywhere? The train whistle moaned in the night, joining with the clatter of pistons, the rhythm of the wheels.
The warmth of my small packet of dulcimer tuning keys drew my hand to my bodice. I drew it to the outside of my clothes and clutched the warm leather in my palm, feeling the small lumps of keys inside. I was surprised at the comfort they brought.
I would see Welsie True at last, and she would help me find my way through this maze of deception and darkness. Tomorrow, I would begin to set things right. I lifted my chin and stared again into the black night.
Yes, tomorrow I would start my life all over again. The past would be forgotten. I would sing as never before, and my heart would spill over with love and music and joy.
I wondered why I didn’t believe it could happen. Ever.
Twenty
I spent the night in a small, tile-roofed Spanish inn across from the small train station. At dawn the scent of salt air filled my nostrils even before I opened my eyes, just as the lonely cries of seagulls filled my heart. I hurried into my clothes and headed downstairs, through the parlor to the dusty street.
It had been dark when I arrived the night before, but now I could see that the squat adobe inn sat squarely atop a small cliff near the sea. A lacy froth of bougainvillea covered half the roof and cascaded to the ground below. Two seagulls marched jauntily along the rooftop peak; another perched on one foot, looking out toward the ocean.
As soon as I rounded the picket fence that framed the inn, I climbed along a path past an outcropping of sandstone. The cool ocean breeze touched my cheeks, lifted my hair, and stung my eyes. In the distance, waves hit the sand with a rhythmic rushing roar, and I climbed farther up the small cliff to have a look.
A gasp escaped my lips as I took in my first view of the ocean. I felt like laughing and crying at the same time. A sense of wonder fell over me, wrapped round me, filled me, as nothing before had ever done. I almost forgot my heartache.
My gaze fell to the horizon, and I scarce could imagine the distance to that place where the sky met the sea, blending together so completely it seemed it must surely be where eternity began.
My cheeks were wet with tears, but they dried nearly as fast as they flowed because of the soft sea air that touched them. I wanted to fall to my knees but felt shy about doing so.
“O God,” I whispered, “are you truly in this place?”
Suddenly my mind was filled with possibilities I’d never before reckoned on. That there were whole worlds God had created, that he was not just the God my Poppy had spoken of, or the preacher in Oak Hill had droned on about in a monotone voice. He was something bigger that all that. I stood astounded, unable to take it in.
The seagulls soared, floating above
me like nothing I’d ever seen before. They cried and called and swooped. I laughed and danced in a circle, holding out my arms in the purest joy I had felt in years. Then, removing my shoes and lifting my skirts above my ankles, I headed along a path leading from the cliffs to the sand below.
I wanted to shout with joy, but instead I stopped dead still, grinning as wide as I could remember, letting the lacy waves lick my toes. I hiked up my skirts and waded deeper, to my ankles, then to my knees, feeling the sway of the water lift me upward. Giggling, I felt the sand disappear from beneath my feet when the tide ebbed.
Little crablike creatures skittered across the wet sand, diving and digging, and all around me seashells of every color dotted the beach.
I stared at the ocean, the gulls, and the pelicans, under the sky looking more like heaven than I could ever have imagined. I ran and played and skipped along the beach, twirling through the shallows. Words and music seemed to come out of my heart without bidding. I opened my mouth and sang songs long forgotten as I danced into the waves and out again.
My joy turned into a quieter kind of peace then, and I settled onto a dry patch of sand, letting the sun beat strong on my head and shoulders. How long I sat, I could not say. For the moments seemed to settle so deep into my soul that time seemed not to exist at all.
Finally, my rumbling stomach brought me from my reverie. The day ahead would be long and perhaps not entirely pleasant. Reluctantly, I headed back up the cliffs to the boardinghouse for breakfast. Once I reached the top, I turned to look once more at the ocean. At that moment the low mellow tones of a bell echoed across the valley and mixed with the rush of the waves.
Shading my eyes against the sun, I took in some low, rolling hills in the distance. A bell tower rose above what appeared to be a long white wall with taller buildings above it. Clustered around what surely must be the mission were several smaller buildings—houses, I supposed. Light from the rising sun slanted against it all, causing the small village, the mission, to stand out against the darker trees behind.