Yankee Wife

by Linda Lael Miller

  Lydia was not used to being waited on, and she didn't intend to make a habit of it, believing that would have a poor effect on her character. Nevertheless, she was hungry, and she had a lot of work ahead of her, so she thanked him and reached for the cream pitcher and the sugar bowl.

  “The general store will be finished and open for business soon,” she commented, and immediately thought of Polly and Devon. She was chagrined to realize this was the first time either of them had crossed her mind since the wedding.

  “Yes,” Jake answered, pouring coffee for Lydia and for himself, and joining her at the table. “There's the doc's place, too. He's going to have a nice little house there at the end of Main Street, with two good rooms and a place in the back to do his doctorin'.”

  Lydia set down her spoon and lowered her eyes for a moment. She hadn't thought about Joseph McCauley, either, and the prospect of facing him was not an appealing one. She would have to go to Joseph immediately and apologize for any embarrassment or injury she might have caused him the day before, when she'd sat beside him at the wedding and then bolted up and married Brigham.

  Jake evidently hadn't noticed her introspection. “The school is takin' shape, too, and then there's the, er, boardinghouse.”

  Lydia looked at him in question. “Boardinghouse? I hadn't heard about that.”

  The cook rose to fetch the coffeepot. “I don't reckon you would have,” he muttered.

  “I beg your pardon?” Lydia asked politely.

  “You'd best just go look for yourself, Mrs. Quade. I shouldn't have said anything.”

  Lydia took up her spoon again. All this fuss over a boardinghouse. As far as she was concerned, it was a good idea; the town badly needed accommodations for travelers and unmarried men and women.

  Later, when Lydia arrived in the center of town, she was delighted to see that the meetinghouse was indeed under construction. Men were laying a stone foundation, while others dug a well, and there were stacks of seasoned lumber and kegs of nails on hand.

  Lydia permitted herself to imagine the completed structure, with desks and a chalkboard and lots of books, and smiled. At Christmas her students would put on a pageant, she decided, and she'd make sure there were oranges and peppermint sticks for all of them.

  “Lydia?”

  She started, turned to see Dr. McCauley standing beside her. She hadn't expected to encounter him just yet, and she wasn't prepared. Her tongue rose to the roof of her mouth and cemented itself there, immovable.

  “Or should I call you Mrs. Quade now?” Joseph asked, and there was no condemnation in his tone or expression.

  Lydia swallowed, pried her tongue loose. It moved awkwardly at first. “Of—of course you'll call me Lydia,” she said. She raised her eyes to his gentle face. “Oh, Joseph, I—”

  He took both her hands in his own. “Don't, Lydia. You needn't explain. Just tell me that you and I can still be friends.”

  She felt tears form in her eyes. They had a history together, she and Joseph, forged in the fearsome blood and dust and noise of war, and it was something of a miracle that they'd found each other again. She cherished the bond between them. “I expected you to be angry,” she said, turning her head slightly and blinking a few times.

  Joseph sighed. “No, darlin'—I couldn't be angry with you, not ever. I won't say I'm not disappointed, but I've suffered worse things and always gotten over them in due time.”

  His words gave Lydia pause, unsettled her a little. She tried to imagine Brigham saying he couldn't ever be angry with her and failed utterly. With this man there would have been peace and poetry; with Brigham for a husband, she would know passion, perhaps even violent passion, and any fool could safely predict the occasional loud argument.

  She stood on tiptoe and kissed Joseph's cheek lightly. “Show me this house of yours,” she said. “I've already heard a little about it from Jake Feeny, but I want to see for myself.”

  The framing was already up for Joseph's simple cottage. There was a well being dug, and, at some distance of course, a pit for the privy. He would have two rooms, one to sleep in, the other for cooking, reading, eating, and the like.

  “I'll be needing some help sometimes,” Joseph said, looking out at the water and the jagged white peaks of the mountains as he spoke. “I don't suppose you've ever delivered a baby, for all your experience, have you? Once people start moving into Quade's Harbor in earnest, I'm going to need some help.”

  A tendril of hair blew against Lydia's cheek, tickling, and she brushed it away. “Your soldiers shot ours with rifles and cannon and sometimes plain old ordinary field stones, Dr. McCauley,” she said wryly. “They didn't make them pregnant.”

  Joseph laughed, and the last of the tension between them dissipated, like a fog burned away by sunshine.

  Lydia touched his arm, still smiling, glad the rough spot had been smoothed over. “As it happens, I have done some midwifing in my time. My father was a doctor, you will recall, and he had a practice in Fall River before the war. I often helped at birthings.”

  The physician looked pleased, then a thoughtful frown came over his face. “But you weren't married then,” he pointed out after a moment's consideration. “Your husband might have serious objections to your serving as a nurse.”

  The idea! Lydia straightened her spine and lifted her chin a notch. “I feel certain Mr. Quade will understand my desire to practice the healing arts,” she said, though she didn't feel certain at all. When it came right down to it, she didn't have any idea what her husband expected of her—besides more of the glorious mischief they'd engaged in the night before, that is—because she didn't know him. Not the way a wife should know the man she's married, anyway.

  “Perhaps he will understand,” Joseph conceded in a musing tone, turning to gaze at the rising framework of a two-story building on a spit of land out beyond the mill. A moment later he was looking into Lydia's eyes. “But will you?”

  Lydia was chilled by his words, though she tried to pass them off lightly. Standing there in the dusty street—the rain so typical of the Puget Sound country had not come in a while—she shaded her eyes and studied the newest structure. “That must be the boardinghouse,” she said.

  Joseph coughed, as though he'd caught something in his throat. “Boardinghouse?” he echoed. “Is that what Brigham told you?”

  She could see tents on the site, and patches of bright color moving about, like chips of painted glass in a low tide. “Brigham didn't tell me anything,” she said, squinting. “Who are those women over there, in those fancy dresses? Are they going to be boarders?”

  “You might say that,” Joseph allowed, taking his watch from the pocket of his vest and consulting it soberly.

  “When did they arrive?” Lydia's heart was beating a bit faster than usual, and there was a niggling sensation in the pit of her stomach.

  “Yesterday,” her friend answered reluctantly. “They probably came in on the same freighter Devon did.” He studied his watch again, as though unable to recognize the numerals. “If you have any more questions, Lydia, you'd best present them to your husband.”

  Lydia had too many other things to do to go trailing after Brigham. Besides, encounters with him took a certain mental energy, and she hadn't had an opportunity to rebuild what she'd expended in the night. She decided to ask about the boardinghouse at supper.

  Seeing the children playing happily in the yard of her cottage, Lydia remembered the kitten and hurried toward the gate, full of guilt.

  Millie immediately came forward, brought the small creature from the pocket of her pinafore and held her up for Lydia's inspection. “Don't worry,” she chimed. “I've already given Ophelia some milk, and she's quite content, riding in my pocket.”

  Lydia smiled, deeply relieved, and bent to kiss her stepdaughter's forehead. “Thank you.”

  Charlotte approached. “Must we have lessons today?” she asked, giving the question a plaintive note. “The weather is so splendid!”

 
After pretending to consider the idea solemnly, having taken Ophelia from Millie's grasp and begun stroking her, Lydia said, “Well, it's Monday, and it is generally bad form to be idle on that day, since one tends to get the week off to a somewhat slipshod start. A good beginning makes for a good ending, you know. However, since I've just been married, I'll let you have this one holiday.”

  Millie and Charlotte ran cheering back to the yard, while Lydia proceeded into the cottage that had been her home for such a short time. In the small bedroom, she exchanged yesterday's clothes and linens for fresh things, while the kitten frolicked and tumbled on the bed.

  She replaced a few of the pins holding her hair in its soft, loose knot, then got out her satchel and began packing her smaller belongings. She had not been at the task long when someone knocked at the front door.

  “It's only me!” Polly called, letting herself in. A few moments later she stood in the doorway of Lydia's room.

  There were still shadows under Polly's eyes, and her skin had a disconcerting pallor to it, for all her feeble attempts to look and sound normal.

  “Congratulations, Mrs. Quade,” Polly said gently. “You have the look of a happy woman.”

  Lydia flushed, taking a camisole from her satchel, refolding the garment, putting it back. She was happy, she realized, both emotionally and physically. “There are no hard feelings, then?”

  Polly laughed, but the sound had a hollow note. “No, of course not.” She sighed, and Lydia saw that her sister-in-law was leaning against the doorjamb, her arms folded. “I think Brigham was hoping you would speak up when the preacher asked for objections to the marriage.”

  “I doubt that,” Lydia said, dismissing the idea. She wanted to know about Polly. “How are you and Devon getting along?” she asked, even though she dreaded the answer.

  “We're not,” Polly answered, with a disconsolate breeziness that pulled at Lydia's heart. “My husband left again, not long after the wedding. I thought you knew.”

  Lydia had known, of course, that Devon and Polly's problems hadn't been solved by his insistence on marriage, but she'd hoped it meant Devon was willing to make an effort. “Oh, Polly,” she whispered, moving toward the other woman and taking her forearms in her hands, “that's dreadful!”

  She saw Polly's broken heart in her eyes, in her one-shoulder shrug. “At least the baby will have its proper name, and there's the general store to provide a future for us. I'm better off than most women in my position, I should think.”

  “Still—”

  “I don't want you worrying about me, Lydia,” Polly broke in. “It's time I rolled up my sleeves and made something of my life anyhow. Who knows? Maybe Devon's leaving was the best thing that could have happened to me.”

  Lydia embraced her. “If you need anything, you'll let me know, won't you?”

  Polly sniffled and then nodded. “I've always wanted a sister,” she said, with a shaky smile.

  “So have I,” Lydia replied. “Now, let's sit down and have a cup of tea. I want to know what you're planning for the store.”

  Taking the kitten along in her pocket, Lydia went to the wood box for kindling and built up a fire. Then, leaving the back door open so some of the heat would escape, she carried the teakettle out and worked the pump handle until it was filled with water.

  “Have you been over to look at the boardinghouse?” she asked, setting the kettle on the stove to begin heating, and reaching for the tin of tea leaves.

  It was only happenstance that Lydia glanced in Polly's direction a moment after she'd spoken, and saw her go even paler than before.

  “B-Boardinghouse?” Polly echoed, sounding distinctly uncomfortable.

  Lydia stood still, the china teapot in one hand, the canister in the other. “Yes. That big building around on the other side of the mill.”

  Polly ran her tongue over her lips. “You're not teasing, are you?”

  “Teasing?” Lydia was mystified. “Why on earth would I do that?”

  Polly rolled her eyes and sighed heavily. “Dear God, you're serious,” she decided in dismay. “Lydia, that isn't a boardinghouse. It's a saloon and brothel.”

  Lydia's mouth dropped open. She'd been around her share of saloons, even played piano in them for her supper, down in San Francisco, and she was well aware of the seedy establishments on the sawdust-covered ground of Seattle's Skid Road. But this was plain, simple, isolated Quade's Harbor. Having a brothel and saloon there was like putting up a privy in heaven.

  “Does Brigham know about this?” she asked in an urgent tone after several moments had passed.

  Polly stared at her. “Does he know? Lydia, Brigham owns Quade's Harbor. He imported the women from Seattle himself, and he's backing the saloon financially.”

  After dragging a chair back from the table, Lydia sank into it. She felt a little dizzy. “I don't believe it,” she marveled. “It's like giving his own men poison!”

  Now it was Polly's turn to be sympathetic. She reached out and covered Lydia's hand with hers. “I'm the last person who would disagree with you,” she said. “But men do see things from a different perspective, you know.”

  Lydia imagined poor Magna Holmetz, as an example, waiting at home, pregnant, friendless, unable to speak the language, while her husband spent his hard-earned wages on whiskey, cards, and women. From there it was easy to picture the drinking disease spreading, until children were going without shoes and coats and even food, all because of personal vice.

  “Lydia?” Polly gave her hand a little shake.

  But Lydia was still caught up in her thoughts. Her own father had been too fond of whiskey, and perhaps women and gambling, as well. Because of that, she'd grown up with holes in her stockings and a perennial gnawing in her stomach, which didn't abate until she'd gone to war and had access to the United States Army's mess tents.

  “He can't do this,” she said, pushing back her chair and rising.

  “He can't do what?” Polly countered anxiously, standing, too. “Lydia, your husband can do just about anything, short of murder. This is his town, and every one here depends on him, one way or the other.”

  Trembling, Lydia raised her hands to her cheeks in a vain attempt to cool them. She was distracted, started in one direction, then the other, then stopped in furious confusion.

  She'd been such a fool.

  “Lydia?” Polly pleaded, worried.

  Lydia sorted out the back door from the front and headed toward the latter, setting the kitten down before she went out. She condemned herself as naive and stupid as she walked toward the gate, Polly scrambling after her.

  If Brigham was building that saloon, if he'd brought the fancy women in himself, he was surely planning to patronize the place in the bargain. The thought was absolutely unbearable to Lydia, even though she knew, on a practical level, that most prosperous men kept mistresses and went uncondemned for it, even by their wives.

  Just as they passed the site of Joseph's future home, Polly caught up to Lydia and stopped her, gripping her arm with surprising strength. “Listen to me!” she hissed. “You can't go to Brigham now, in this state of mind. You've got to wait until you can think rationally.”

  Lydia could barely stand still; she was filled with quiet hysteria. She drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I'm such an idiot!” she blurted, near tears.

  Polly gave her an affectionate shake. “Nonsense. Now, come back to the cottage, Lydia. You and I are going to have our tea.”

  Although she was still chafing to find Brigham and confront him with all the restraint of a chicken tossed into a washtub full of hot water, she knew Polly was right. She would not do her cause any good by approaching her husband in a scalding rage.

  She returned to the cottage, or more properly Polly towed her there, and methodically finished brewing the tea. She even got out the box of chocolates hidden in her bureau; there were still four pieces left, even though the children had eaten most of the candy as rewards for diligence at their less
ons.

  Lydia forced herself to sit at the table, facing her sister-in-law, repeatedly drawing deep breaths and letting them out slowly. After a time, when the tea had steeped and she and Polly had finished off the chocolates, she began to feel calmer.

  Slightly calmer.

  They drank their tea, like ladies of the manor, and talked of inconsequential things, such as the fabrics Polly planned to carry in the store. She meant to have chocolates, as well, she said, and books. There was more to life than meat and potatoes, after all, and the finer items shouldn't be dismissed as luxuries. Some things were staples to the spirit, she maintained, like flour and beans were to the body.

  After an hour Polly reluctantly took her leave. There was a crew working on the store, and she wanted to make sure they were implementing the substantial changes she'd made in the building's interior design.

  “You will be calm,” Lydia murmured to herself as she cleared away the tea things. “You will be calm.”

  Finally, when the place was as tidy as if she and Polly had never been there at all, she put the last of the cream in a saucer for Ophelia and went out.

  Lydia found her husband in the mill, pulling lumber off a steam-powered conveyer as it came from the saw. He was soaked in sweat and covered with plain dirt and sawdust, and his bride felt her sentiments soften just a little. Brigham was an intelligent man, if stubborn, and he would surely see the brothel-saloon issue rationally once she explained it.

  Despite the tender way he had initiated her into marriage the night before, and the way he'd looked at her that morning, making her feel as lovely as Aphrodite, he did not seem pleased to see her.

  In fact, after shouting to another man to take over for him—and one was forced to yell in order to be heard over the screech of the huge mill saw—he took Lydia's elbow in a firm grasp. He marched her over the floor, which was covered in fragrant sawdust, and through the great open archway that served as a door. The din was only slightly less irritating there.

  “What do you want?” he demanded.