by Nancy Moser
Josephine felt guilty for putting Frieda on the spot. “I apologize for the haste of it all.”
“But it is very important,” Rachel said. “We are both going to a dinner at the Wilsons’. Mr. Wilson is the editor of the Washington Chronicle.”
“I know very well who he is,” Frieda said as she fiddled with one of the flounces. “Josephine went to the opera with his brother and wife. This one is a little too far to the left.”
“You have my gratitude in advance,” Josephine said. As soon as Frieda collected the gown in her able arms, Josephine kissed her cheek. “As always, you’re wonderful. Thank you.”
“You can thank me by having that Simmons fellow propose marriage.”
Josephine immediately looked to Rachel, whose eyebrows rose.
“I told you the name of my escort,” she explained. “And despite what Frieda says, we are not near to getting engaged.” Josephine stepped out of two of the extra petticoats and handed her day dress to Rachel, needing help to get it on.
“Why have I not heard much of him?”
“We have known each other for only a few weeks.”
Rachel tapped her chin with a finger. “Simmons, Simmons . . . I don’t know of any Simmonses in Washington society.”
Josephine’s defenses rose. “You wouldn’t know him because he comes from a wealthy New York family. His father worked with Cornelius Vanderbilt. Father introduced us.”
“I am so weary of hearing about New York society,” Rachel said with a sigh. “Vanderbilts, Astors, Guggenheims. It is as if Washington society does not exist.” She flipped the thought away. “What is he doing in Washington?”
“Mr. Simmons is an artist. He sketches important events.”
“Oh? Did he create illustrations during the war?”
That was a good question. “I don’t think so. He said he was in Europe for a time.”
“How convenient,” Rachel said, buttoning the dress.
Josephine turned ’round to face her. “What do you mean by that?”
Rachel shrugged, took Josephine by her shoulders, and spun her back again, returning to the buttons. “I am sure many of our boys would have liked to be overseas instead of fighting.” She patted Josephine, signaling she was finished. “I know I have never been more glad that I did not have brothers.” She looked into the air between them. “I do miss your Thomas. I might have fallen in love with him had I not met my Clark. I just know it.”
The thought of Rachel marrying her brother did not bring Josephine pleasure. She was a good enough friend, but her frivolousness combined with Thomas’s impulsiveness? It would have been a marriage without a rudder.
If he had lived. Which he hadn’t.
Josephine felt sorrow rise from her toes to her heart. She must not let it reach its target, or she would never feel up to dinner. To quell its progress, she linked arms with Rachel. “Now tell me the latest gossip.”
Sometimes there were advantages to having a frivolous friend.
The two couples stood at the door to the Wilsons’ brownstone. Lewis fidgeted, pulling at his vest, fingering his tie.
“Are you nervous, Mr. Simmons?” Rachel asked.
“A little.”
“Nonsense, my man,” said Rachel’s husband, Clark. “You have already been to the opera with Wilson’s brother, so you’re in. Relax and enjoy yourself. I plan to.”
Rachel patted his arm. “You never have trouble with that.”
Lewis looked down at Josephine. “Have I told you how ravishing you look?”
“Once or twice.” But she didn’t mind hearing it again.
Nervous or not, he lifted the doorknocker and let it drop. A butler let them in and took the men’s hats and gloves and the women’s shawls.
The parlor was ablaze with gaslights, a fire, and candles. A handsome middle-aged woman came to greet them, and she—Mrs. Wilson—led them to her husband. “Darling, the Maddoxes have arrived, along with a Mr. Simmons and . . . ?”
“Josephine Cain,” she supplied. Why hadn’t Lewis introduced her? And hadn’t Rachel told Mrs. Wilson they were coming? It was horribly awkward, as though they were simply a couple called in off the street.
“Cain?” Mr. Wilson said. “Might you be a relation to General Reginald Cain?”
She was thrilled to be able to say yes. “He is my father.”
“Ah yes. Now it is all falling into place. Robert and Edith so enjoyed their time at the opera with you. And as for your father, I know of no finer officer, and no finer man to take over the construction of the Transcontinental Railroad project.”
“The railroad?” said another man.
Mr. Wilson filled him in about Josephine’s father and his position.
The other two couples gathered close, and Robert Wilson asked how the railroad project progressed.
“Come in and have a seat, my dear,” Mrs. Wilson said. “Tell us all about your father’s special work out west.”
“Indeed,” Rachel said with a wink. “Tell us.”
Josephine was led to a sofa she shared with Mrs. Wilson. The others stood nearby, placing her in the center of their attention. Josephine noted the look on Lewis’s face. His jaw was tight and his brow furrowed.
But she couldn’t worry about that now. The company was full of questions, and she answered them the best she could. She was glad for her father’s detailed letters.
After her discourse, Mr. Wilson looked at Lewis for the first time. “You must be very proud of Miss Cain and her family, Mr. Simon.”
Lewis’s face flashed just a moment before he said, “Simmons. And yes, sir, I am.”
But he didn’t look proud. He looked oddly afraid.
Josephine wished she could take lessons from Mrs. Wilson on gracious hospitality. The woman had a talent for making everyone feel involved and welcome. And the food: a mushroom soup, turbot, braised leg of mutton, new potatoes, Virginia brown bread, and upcoming, strawberry custard tartlets.
Josephine didn’t have another smidgen of space left in her stomach, but upon seeing the luscious dessert, she knew she would have to find some.
As they were being served, Rachel piped up. “I hear you spent the war in Europe, Mr. Simmons. Drawing?”
Lewis rearranged his napkin, then said, “I—I traveled to many countries sketching the points of interest.”
“Which was your favorite city?”
He hesitated a moment, then said, “Rome.”
“I adore Rome,” Rachel said.
Mr. Wilson nodded. “Did you visit the Pantheon? That’s a favorite of mine.”
“No, I did not travel to Greece,” Lewis said.
There was a moment of silence, and Josephine didn’t know whether to save him or let it pass.
Another guest did it for her. “The Pantheon is in Rome.”
“Yes, yes, of course.”
Josephine offered a little laugh. “Pantheon, Parthenon—they sound so similar, it is hard to keep them straight.”
“Where did you earn your artistic training?” Mrs. Wilson asked.
A pause. “The—the Louvre,” he said.
Again, a spat of silence. The Louvre was a museum. Was it also an art school?
Mrs. Wilson picked up her fork. “My, the strawberries are lush this year. Enjoy.”
Josephine had lost her appetite.
Lewis slammed the door of the carriage, plopped into the seat across from Josephine, making the entire carriage sway.
“He did not say one word about my drawings,” he said.
“Mr. Wilson?”
“Yes, of course Mr. Wilson. The reason I was happy to go to this dinner was to impress him so he’d buy more of my drawings for the newspaper.”
“But Mrs. Wilson showed interest. She asked you about your training.”
“Quizzed me. Interrogated me.” Tripped me up.
“They were showing interest. Is that not what you wanted, what anyone wants at such a soiree?”
Maybe. But what he really n
eeded was some decent income as well as praise for his art. Courting a socialite was a drain on his meager wages from the butcher shop.
He gave his attention to the passing buildings.
Josephine leaned forward and touched his knee. “I am sure Mr. Wilson simply didn’t want to discuss business at a social gathering. He will likely contact you tomorrow.”
Lewis knew the odds of that were slim. Yet all he needed was a chance. What good did it do to have talent when he couldn’t make a living with it? And how could he keep Josephine’s interest when he was a nobody, with no prospects? She thought he had family money. If only . . .
Once they were married and his plan was fully implemented, he’d have plenty of money. Her money would be his. But until then, if she ever found out who he really was . . .
Frustration trumped his common sense, and he said, “You certainly were the belle of the evening, being the daughter of the great General Cain.”
“I did not seek attention.”
“But it found you nonetheless. Some people get all the luck, all the time.”
“There was no luck involved in my being asked to talk about Papa and his work on the railroad. I received nothing from the attention, except perhaps pride in being his daughter.” She touched him again. “As I was proud to be your companion. Please, Lewis. Don’t be angry. I thought the night was very pleasant.”
“That does not surprise me.”
Josephine leaned away, creating distance.
After a few moments, Lewis reached for her hand. “I am sorry. I’m a selfish lout. Forgive me?”
She nodded.
He had to be more careful. Lose Josephine and all was lost.
Josephine tossed her earrings on the dressing table and one jumped to the rug. “He is the most exasperating man I have ever known.”
In the mirror, she saw Frieda smile as she removed the pins from her hair. “You must like him very much.”
“How can you say that?”
Frieda held her hand palm-up, which was a reminder for Josephine to hold out her own hand for the pins. “It is just that young ladies seldom waste their time and protests against a man for whom they have no feelings. You are upset at Mr. Simmons because on this particular evening, he did not fit into your image of the perfect man.”
She harrumphed. “Hardly perfect at all.”
Frieda leaned forward and whispered in her ear. “It would not bother you unless you cared for him.”
Somehow the logic seemed skewed, but Josephine was too tired to sort it through. “He was really quite insufferable, making it my fault that the host and hostess engaged me in conversation about Papa and the railroad.”
“He wanted to be the man in your life this evening.”
Oh.
But then she thought of something else. “He confused the Pantheon with the Parthenon.”
“He should be shot.”
Josephine got the point. “He was nervous. He wants Mr. Wilson to buy his drawings for the paper.”
“There you go. He has ambition and wants to use his talents. Both of which are attributes.”
Josephine saw her own shoulders relax. Frieda was right. She must focus on the evening’s pleasures and forget its shortcomings.
And what were its pleasures?
Her mind went blank.
Chapter Five
Hudson and Raleigh took their places on top of a bunk car, legs dangling over the side.
“We’re hardly riding first class.”
“But we do have the best view.” Hudson pointed to the west, to that point on the compass that owned such a huge responsibility to all those who contemplated it. The West elicited feelings of adventure, hope, danger, thrills, and promise. That he was sitting on top of a train that would take him there, that he was poised to lay the track that would bring the West close to anyone who wished to see it, was a heady thought.
“We’re riding on the cusp of history,” he whispered to the wind.
A deafening whistle announced it was time to leave.
Then the sound of metal against metal and a jerk as if the train had awakened and was stretching its muscles. Hudson joined the other workers as they cheered. He couldn’t have remained silent if he’d wanted to as the immensity of the moment demanded release.
The train moved forward, inching, then sprinting, then finding its stride in a full-out run.
Black smoke and sparks flew past, making Hudson glad the bunk cars were a few back from the locomotive.
“We’re going, we’re really going,” Raleigh said.
“That was the goal,” Hudson said with a laugh.
Yet this was not just any train ride, nor any train. This was the ride of the train that would be the prequel of hundreds and thousands of trains to come.
The Omaha rail yard grew smaller behind them.
“It’s a new beginning,” Raleigh said.
Hudson nodded, and together they watched what was past and what was known move faster and farther away.
Lewis opened the lid of the trunk that held what was left of his parents’ belongings. He removed a small box and set it on the table. Inside were his mother’s jewels, though perhaps “jewels” was too strong a word. They were pretty trinkets, but he had no idea if they were real or paste. He guessed the latter. The valuable pieces had been sold long ago, after his father and Vanderbilt parted ways.
He fingered through the lot, freeing a pearl necklace from the tangle. He held it to the light and saw that the outer layer of a few pearls was peeling off. “Apparently an oyster didn’t make these.”
A pair of earrings was next, two gold baubles hanging from thin wires. But he overruled them as he’d never noticed whether Josephine had pierced ears.
Then he saw the bracelet. He let the gold chain sit in his hand. Its only ornament was a single teardrop of a red stone. Could it be a ruby? He gave it closer inspection. It was pretty. And the weight of the piece made him think it could actually be of real worth.
Then keep it. If things get worse, you might have to sell it.
He shook the thought away. By finagling a meeting with General Cain, he’d set in place something more precious than jewels: a chance to set his destiny in motion. That he liked the general’s daughter and she seemed to like him—well, that was an added perk leading to a goal he was determined to achieve, no matter what.
“She’ll love it,” he said to the room.
And more than that, it might go a long way toward making amends and keeping his plan alive.
Lewis entered the butcher shop.
“It’s about time ya showed up,” Mr. Connelly said. “I was gettin’ ready to bang a broom on the ceiling to rouse ya.” He swung the cleaver into the back of a pig then peered at Lewis over his spectacles. “Yer not wearing that fancy suit to work. We got a side of beef to break down, and two—”
“I can’t work this morning. There’s something important I have to do.”
Connelly wiped his bloody hands on his apron. “More important than working for me? Or has you come into a stash of money so’s you don’t have to work no more?”
Lewis was going to argue, then changed his tactic. “I’m working on the latter.” He yanked at his lapels. “How do I look?”
“Like yer wearing your da’s old suit.”
Really? “It doesn’t look that bad, does it?”
Mrs. Connelly came in from the back room and eyed him. “You look right handsome, Lewis. Though me and the mister don’t know squat about what’s in fashion. But who does anymore? People have more to think about now than the width of a skirt or the length of a coat.”
He felt a little better for her words. “Thank you, Mrs. Connelly. I appreciate that.”
“Care to share the name of your stash o’ money? I assume it’s a she.”
“I think I’ll keep that bit to myself, if you don’t mind.”
Connelly pointed the cleaver at him—though not in a threatening way. “I don’t begrudge you trying to better
yerself, but I do begrudge you not being at work. How long you gonna be gone?”
“Just a few hours. I’ll work late tonight. I promise.”
“You’d better.” He emphasized his words by hacking the feet off the pig.
Josephine heard the knock on the door and set her reading aside.
Mother looked up from the pillowcase embroidery. “Dowd will get it.”
Yes, he would. But Josephine was eager for any diversion from another afternoon spent in the bears’ den.
She heard men’s voices, then the butler slid open the doors of the parlor. “Mr. Simmons is here to see you, Miss Cain.”
Before she could fully respond, Lewis entered the room carrying a bouquet of magenta peonies.
The three women gasped. Josephine felt her heart melt. Any animosity she felt toward Lewis dissipated at the sight of the gorgeous flowers, which she had never seen in any florist shop. Where had he found them?
“Oh Lewis, they’re—”
He sidestepped her and walked toward her mother. “Actually, if I may . . . I brought these for you, Mrs. Cain. I thought they might brighten your day.”
Mother blushed like an ingénue accepting her first tussie-mussie. “Oh Mr. Simmons. They’re beautiful.” She pressed her nose into the blooms to inhale, and a look of contentment softened her face.
“Peonies symbolize healing,” Aunt said.
“Really?” Lewis asked.
Mother and Aunt exchanged a look. “You are not familiar with The Language of Flowers?”
“I am afraid I’m not.”
“Let us go find these a vase,” Mother told Aunt.
Surprisingly, they both left. Josephine and Lewis were alone. During all of Lewis’s visits to court her, they had never spent time in the parlor without her mother, aunt, or Frieda present.
“That was very nice of you,” she told him.
“My mother always liked flowers.”
He had not spoken much about his family. “Liked?”
“She died a few years ago, of yellow fever.”
“I am so sorry. Is your father still living?”