The Journey of Josephine Cain

by Nancy Moser

  It was a drawing of her ring. At the bottom was the name Tiffany and Co. She had heard of that New York jewelry establishment. Mother had a necklace designed by them.

  Designed by them.

  She picked up her ring and compared it to the drawing. There was no doubt the one was the result of the other. So Lewis had exquisite taste. Or . . .

  “Why do you have a drawing of my ring?”

  “Because it was reported stolen by a Mrs. Benjamin Troester.”

  “Oh dear,” Frieda said.

  Josephine was mortified, yet there was nothing that could make the moment less painful. She set the drawing back on his desk and placed the ring on top of it. “Would you please see that Mrs. Troester’s ring is returned to her?”

  “Of course,” he said.

  Humiliation propelled her to stand. “I assure you I had no idea it was stolen.”

  “I know you didn’t. But . . . when I saw the ring, and you mentioned your fiancé’s name, I looked into him and . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “There’s more?” Frieda asked.

  “I’m afraid so. It turns out your Lewis Simmons is actually Lewis Simon.”

  Josephine sank to the chair. “I don’t understand. Why would he change his name?”

  He brought forward a page for her perusal. It was from the United States Army. The words blurred. All except one.

  “Deserter?”

  “Apparently he deserted and rejoined the army for the signing bonus. More than once. Twice that we know of.”

  “Once a coward, always a coward,” Frieda said.

  None of this made sense. “Lewis said he spent the war in Europe, studying art.”

  Chief Brandon shrugged. “Apparently he was lying.”

  “He said his family had a fine house in New York and—”

  The chief shook his head. “His father, Archibald Simon, was hanged as a spy. He pretended to work for the North while blockade-running for the South. . . . He was hanged on your father’s orders.”

  Josephine gasped.

  The chief continued. “I don’t know what happened to the mother, as there is no record of the family beyond the war.”

  Lewis said she died of yellow fever.

  Maybe she did. Maybe she didn’t.

  Josephine pressed a hand to her forehead. Everything she had known and believed about Lewis was a lie.

  “I am so sorry, Miss Cain. I didn’t want to tell you, and yet . . . he is not someone a woman of your station should marry, whether you love him or not.”

  His mention of love made her bristle, and she raised her chin. “Love should be freely given, and it should be based on honor and truth. Since Mr. . . . ?”

  “Simon.”

  “Since Mr. Simon has chosen to falsely insert himself into my family, I have no choice but to assume that his motives were far from pure, and his supposed love for me was a farce to be played out toward a profitable end.”

  “Or revenge,” Frieda said.

  Josephine looked at her.

  “Think about it,” Frieda said. “Your father orders his father hanged. Was Lewis getting close to you to somehow hurt your father?”

  It was too much to take in. Josephine extended her hand to the chief. That it was shaking couldn’t be helped. “Thank you, Chief Brandon. I think this concludes our business.”

  “Best of luck to you, Miss Cain.”

  She had to set him straight on that. “There is no such thing as luck. God arranged for our paths to cross in order to give me His assurance and the truth, and so I thank Him, and you. Good day.”

  Josephine assumed Frieda followed her out to the street, but she didn’t dare dally or look back.

  There would be no looking back.

  Once home, Josephine went up to her room and quietly shut the door. Although she was teeming with anger, humiliation, and grief, she didn’t react as she had done in the past when confronted with disappointment: with a tantrum or sulking. Instead she crossed the room with slow deliberation, feeling the gentle sway of her skirt, hearing the subtle rustle of her petticoats, conscious of the beat of her heart.

  She removed her hat and placed it on her dressing table with the care reserved for a piece of delicate sculpture. Then she sat at her desk, chose a single piece of paper, and turned it in a writerly direction. She took up the pen and removed the lid from the inkwell. She took a cleansing breath and began the letter as she always began it: Dearest Papa.

  But then she stopped. What should she tell him? Everything or nothing? There seemed little possibility of anything in between. She couldn’t tell him about her sudden idea to start a store without telling him about Lewis’s deception—and warning him of Lewis’s possible revenge. Nor could she tell him about the latter without mentioning that she had fallen in love with Hudson Maguire—who had recently been sent away by her mother.

  In the last few days, the high and low points of her life had converged, changing it completely. Truth was deceit, old love was proved false, new love was out of reach, and her future had been moved from an eastern city to a western plain. A life of mindless privilege, where she was expected to accomplish little, had transformed into a life of hard work greatly dependent on her own abilities and determination.

  Yet for the first time in her life, Josephine felt a surge of exhilaration at the possibilities that were within her grasp. Her future was not destined and designed by others, but would be molded and fashioned by herself.

  For the first time in her life, she was in control. Before the war, she had only thought she controlled her life. Whatever she wanted she could acquire through charm. Yet that wasn’t really control. It was manipulation. Papa was the one in ultimate control of everything; Josephine had simply learned how to maneuver his wishes to match her own.

  And then Lincoln’s assassination and the deaths of the boys had mocked her so-called control, showing her that she had no say in any of it. What she wanted didn’t matter.

  Did it matter now?

  She moved her gaze from the page to the window. It had not been her choice to be duped by Lewis, drawn into a relationship based on lies and, she was beginning to believe, some diabolical plan. It had not been her choice to fall in love with Hudson, a man who was beyond the image and description of any man she had ever met or expected to meet. And now he was gone, sent away by her mother because he didn’t fit into a nice, neat box. Where was Josephine’s control in all that?

  It seemed that love, which was intimate and invisible, was beyond her control, while the choices of starting a store and moving west—choices that were pragmatic and social—were hers to do with as she wished. Hers to control.

  But you are not fully in control of any of it, Josephine.

  She sucked in a breath, hearing the inner check. “No, I am not,” she whispered. “You are.”

  And so she set the pen in its holder and clasped her hands, leaning her chin against them. Father God, You are leading me on a journey into the unknown. Thank You for the path ahead and the choices You have placed before me. Help me make the right ones. She opened her eyes, finding it hard to say the final words that begged to be said.

  To have achieved control only to relinquish it? It was like being given a gift and being asked to give it back.

  A gift. A gift had been given to her.

  And then she knew that every door that had opened—and closed—had been orchestrated by the Almighty. He had been leading her on this journey from girl to woman, from socialite to merchant, from easterner to woman of the West. She had walked through the doors, but they would never have opened if it hadn’t been for God, who was working toward a bigger plan for her life.

  He deserved her gratitude, her worship.

  And even more than that, her surrender.

  With a nod she closed the deal, mentally handing the gift back to the Giver.

  Take control of all that is before me, Lord. It is Yours.

  As am I.

  Josephine and Frieda chec
ked a list of the boxes of inventory to make sure each one bore the End of the Line designation before it went out the door and onto the wagon that would accompany it to the depot. It was odd to see those words, because they seemed the opposite of what Josephine felt. The destination where those boxes and trunks were going—where she was going—was not the end of the line, but the beginning of something new. It was exhilarating.

  And terrifying.

  They both looked up when they heard Aunt Bernice on the stairs, giving directions. “Make sure my trunk has the same destination designation as the others. I wouldn’t want it to end up in Minnesota when I am going to Wyoming.”

  What?

  Josephine and Frieda stepped into the foyer just as two men reached the bottom of the stairs with Aunt’s trunk. She swept down behind them. Upon seeing Josephine, she touched her hat and said, “Is it too busy? I packed some simpler ones, but I thought this would do at least until we reached Omaha.”

  “Omaha?” Josephine asked.

  “That is where the new railroad begins, yes?”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  Nelly rushed down the stairs behind Aunt Bernice, a carpetbag held against her chest. “Isn’t it wonderful Auntie is coming with us?”

  Josephine let the new “auntie” designation pass. “You are coming west with us?” she asked.

  “If you will have me.”

  Frieda clapped her hands beneath her chin, her opinion obvious.

  It wasn’t that Josephine didn’t feel the same joy. It was the suddenness of the decision that gave her pause.

  Aunt stepped forward to explain, taking Josephine’s hands in hers. “I am too young to sit here and while away my life. I want to start over too.” She let go of Josephine’s hands and peered toward the door. “When I lost George in the first days of the war, and then lost William in the last, I thought my life was over.” She looked back at Josephine and smiled. “But it is not. Your visits out west inspired me to think of the future. I had no idea what that meant until you shared your idea about a store. And . . .” She held out her arm and Nelly found her place beneath it. “And until you brought this little jewel into my life.” She flicked the end of Nelly’s nose. “She needs a new start, and so do I. And so we will all go together and take the West by storm.”

  “All?”

  They looked up the stairs and saw Mother standing there.

  “I am going west too, Lizzie. Why don’t you come with us?”

  Josephine inwardly repelled the idea.

  Luckily, Mother said, “Don’t be ridiculous. My home is here.”

  Aunt put her hand on the newel post at the bottom of the stairs. “What is a home, Lizzie? It is not a building and a few pieces of furniture. Home is being with family—which includes Frieda and Nelly. Our family is going west, and your husband is already there. Come with us and be part of it.”

  Mother’s right hand gripped the banister. Her mouth tightened. “I cannot.”

  “Cannot or will not?”

  Although the last thing Josephine wanted was to have her mother come along, she felt it was her duty to make the argument for the trip. “I hate the idea of your being alone in this house.”

  Mother’s eyes bore into Josephine’s. “I have always been alone in this house.”

  Josephine took a step back as if she had been slapped. Was that really how she felt?

  Aunt was direct. “Listen to me, Lizzie. I have lived in this house since William was killed. I have spent every day by your side, acquiescing to your preferences. I found comfort in your companionship, but to hear that you felt nothing in my presence? You are either heartless or a liar. Which is it?”

  Mother’s breathing turned heavy, but then her gaze fell upon Nelly. She pointed at her. “Those clothes belong here.”

  It took Josephine a moment to switch her focus. Mother was worried about Nelly’s clothes? The absurdity of it spurred her out of her pain. “Those clothes were my clothes. As such I can do what I want with them, and I want to give them to Nelly.”

  “As you wish.”

  With those three words, Mother turned and ascended the stairs. A few moments later they heard her bedroom door close.

  They looked up after her. That was it?

  “I’ll give the clothes back,” Nelly said.

  Her offer broke through the moment. “You most certainly will not,” Aunt said. “Now then. We have a train to catch.”

  Josephine couldn’t pull her gaze away from upstairs. She hated to leave like this. She loved her mother. She didn’t always agree with her, but she loved her.

  What was uncertain was whether her mother loved her.

  Aunt tied a ribbon beneath Nelly’s chin and adjusted her bonnet. “Come now, ladies. Let us be off.”

  In a flurry they moved to leave. Josephine was the last out.

  “Miss Cain?”

  She turned to see Dowd, ready to close the door behind her. “Don’t worry about your mother, miss. We’ll see to it she’s all right.”

  On impulse, she embraced him. “Thank you.”

  “Godspeed, Miss Josephine.”

  As the carriage pulled away, Josephine took one last look at the house where she had been raised. A parade of memories filed past: of her and Thomas playing checkers and singing around the piano; of spending time with Papa in his study, not caring what was said, but taking full joy in his company; of Frieda teaching her how to dance before her first cotillion—which she never attended because the war began. Even Dowd had a place in her memories, as she always used to tug on the tail of his coat and giggle, receiving a wink in return.

  Where was Mother amid the memories?

  Ah. There she was. Peering back at Josephine from the shadows, a spectator rather than a participant. Perhaps Mother was right. While the rest of the family had lived in the house with her, Mother had chosen to live here separate and alone.

  Then, with a glance, Josephine saw her mother at an upstairs window, watching them leave. But when Josephine waved good-bye, the lace curtains fell back into place.

  So be it.

  As the train sped north, Josephine leaned her head against the window-pane, deep in thought.

  And prayer. Please keep us safe. Keep Mother safe. I worry about her alone in that house. Please make this all work out. I feel responsible for—

  Aunt put a hand on her arm. “Are you all right?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are you questioning your decision?”

  Josephine was surprised when she shook her head no without a second thought. “I made the right decision to leave. But it’s such a huge step.”

  Aunt looked across the aisle at Frieda and Nelly playing rock, paper, scissors. “For all of us.”

  “I know, and that’s—”

  “That’s our choice. Our happiness is not your responsibility.”

  “Indeed it’s not,” Frieda said, joining in the conversation. “And mark my words, I intend to be deliriously happy.”

  “Me too,” Nelly said.

  “Me three,” Aunt said.

  Josephine’s first thought, that it wouldn’t be that easy, was overridden by a smile. “We are the four musketeers.” She thought of d’Artagnan’s cry. “All for one, one for all!”

  “What are musketeers?” Nelly asked.

  “Oh, my dear girl,” Aunt said. “They are characters in a book that is all about adventures. I will have to read it to you.”

  “I can read it by myself.”

  “Of course you can.”

  Their laughter was a balm.

  Hudson stood in front of the Cain residence. On the train he’d had plenty of time to think about what to say to Josie. Winning her over was not the issue, as he truly believed she cared for him. And now, there was the bonus that his obligation to Sarah Ann was severed. He was free. And so was Josie. Mrs. Cain was the problem. For in the short time he’d been gone, Hudson’s financial and social prospects had not miraculously been transformed. Yet didn’t she w
ant her daughter to be happy? He would focus on that. For he knew he could make Josie happy. Maybe not rich, but happy.

  He removed his hat and ran a hand over his head. His heart beat in his throat and he whispered a prayer. “Please, God. You sent me here. Make it work out.”

  That said, he strode up to the door and knocked. The butler answered.

  “Hello, Dowd. Is Miss Josephine at home?”

  Dowd looked confused. “No, Mr. Maguire, she’s not. She’s on a train heading west.”

  “West?”

  “Yes, sir.” Dowd looked toward the upstairs hall as if checking for ears. “She and the little girl, and Mrs. Schultz, and even Mrs. Miller.”

  “Aunt Bernice went too?”

  For the first time, Dowd smiled. “Miss Josephine ignited a mighty spark among them.”

  “Dowd! Who’s here?” called Mrs. Cain.

  The butler lowered his head and stepped back, fully opening the door. “Mr. Maguire, ma’am.”

  Hudson turned his hat in his hands. “Hello, Mrs. Cain.”

  She descended the stairs. “I thought you left.”

  “I came back.”

  “Why?”

  “I came to see your daughter.”

  “You are too late. She went west. They all went west.”

  “So I heard.”

  “She is starting a store.”

  “A store?” The idea surprised him. “A real store?”

  “Is there any other kind?”

  “I suppose not, but—”

  “Do not ever doubt she can accomplish it, Mr. Maguire. What my daughter sets her mind to, she makes happen. If that’s all . . .” She moved as though to return upstairs.

  “When did they leave?”

  She turned back to him. “On the two-o’clock.”

  It only took him a moment to realize, “We must have passed each other on the tracks.”

  Mrs. Cain let out a humph.

  “Is something funny?”

  “So goes the story of my life.” But then she pointed toward the depot. “The next train leaves within the hour.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Cain.”

  Her brow drooped. “Take care of my girl, Mr. Maguire. Tell her . . . tell her I love her.”