Jack Joyner was going places and taking me with him. It didn’t hurt that Jack’s clothes didn’t smell like a musty goat. Besides, he had a rambunctious laugh that tickled me right down to my soles. There’d been little enough laughter in our home since my mother died. Oh, I’ll admit it—I burned, burned, burned for him. What’s more, I didn’t care if I burned in hell for lusting after him.
My feelings did not go unnoticed.
“I won’t allow you to see this man again outside of church services,” my father said. “I forbid it. You will marry Gunner Beck.”
My stepmother’s lips parted in a thin smile. “That’s settled then.” She turned to my father. “Don’t worry, my dear. I’ll arrange everything.”
I wasn’t her dear, and I knew better than to argue any further, but settled? Over my dead body.
Late September,1903
I have escaped! Oh, you can’t imagine the thrill that swept over me every time that thought crossed my mind. I felt as if I had been born anew, with a new name, new store-bought clothes befitting a fashionable lady, and a new husband.
But the reflected image in the Pullman’s window appeared so young and silly I unclasped my hands. I looked like nothing more than a little girl ready to jump for joy, not the way Mrs. Jack Joyner should look. But how could I contain myself? That was the Pacific outside, my first ever glimpse of an ocean. If only I could stop the train and dip my hands in water that had touched the shores of places I had only read about in school. Australia. Japan. Hawaii.
I leaned closer, my breath feathering the window, and I could just make out gray waves breaking white against slate-colored cliff s. A little further out, a fishing skiff pitched and rolled. I longed to hear the waves crash, but couldn’t hear a thing over the metallic scrape of wheels against track, a sound I’d grown numb to over the past eight days as we journeyed west. My lungs felt clogged with smoke from the coal-fired engine. That annoyance fell away as I glimpsed white birds with long curvy necks pecking through the tidal marshes. They looked a bit like those cow birds that pecked grubs from cow patties, but more elegant, with greater wing spans and far longer legs.
“What are those gorgeous critters?” I asked.
“Great white egrets,” Jack said. “So many ladies fancied their feathers for hats, they nearly died off a few years ago.”
I had never considered that someone might actually kill birds to feather hats. I assumed someone gathered stray plumes that fell out naturally. I frequently found them about the farm. Never again would I buy a hat with a feather. It was sinful to kill such a stunning creature. Far more sinful than eloping, Father, I thought. I wished I could stop thinking about him. I wished I could stop worrying about Timmy, left alone with my father and the hateful Martha. I had left a letter under his pillow telling him not to worry about me and that I loved him dearly and always would.
As an egret took flight, I grabbed my sketchbook and outlined its form. For a moment I imagined I was in the air, listening to the flap of my own wings. On the next page I drew the s-curve of an egret half hidden in tall grass and in my mind I could feel the unwinding of that sinuous neck, could feel the cool water against the beak, the gentle lap of a shallow lake pulling against those impossibly long legs. I could taste the morsel it snapped up from the muck. If only I could stop the train to take in more details.
Jack snatched the pencil from my hands. “You’ll have plenty of time to draw all the birds and flowers in California. You don’t have to accomplish the entire collection in one day.”
“That’s my decision to make.” I reached for the pencil, but he whipped it behind his back. How dare he! No man ever again would be allowed to restrict my artistic endeavors.
“You’re devoting too much time to those little sketches.”
Little sketches! His dismissal piqued me. He had praised my drawings while we were courting. Was the honeymoon already over? I had to make up for those lost years after the clash with my father. At every rail station I had drawn whatever I saw. Cactus. Prairie flowers. Gophers. Rattlesnakes. Elk. Mountains—especially the mountains. They were so different from our West Virginia hills. Grander, but more fearsome too. The world was absolutely glorious and I was going to draw it all. Becoming an artist was as much a part of my destiny as my escape with Jack Joyner.
“You had best get it through your head,” I tapped his thick curls, only partly in play, “I am devoted to my art.”
He drew me away from the Pullman’s window, his head ducking beneath my hat to nibble on an ear, whereupon his mustache tickled my neck in the most delightful way. His hand slid up the front of my cotton blouse until it rested beneath my breast. I caught the fragrance of his tobacco and heat raced up the small of my back. All thought of art and rebellion evaporated.
He flashed that self-assured, lopsided smile I found so endearing. “I am hoping that you’ll devote yourself to me, Mrs. Joyner.”
For the next half an hour, I devoted myself to exploring every inch of Mr. Joyner’s delicious skin.
~~~
Noise assaulted us from all directions as we rode through the business district of San Francisco in a carriage. Cable car bells clanging. Horse hooves clopping. Fog horns moaning in the harbor and automobiles honking their way through crowded streets. I wished I could squeeze my ears shut. And my nose. The smell of so much humanity and so many horses packed into a few square miles was overwhelming. So much chimney smoke, and everywhere, the stench of fish markets and offal tossed into alleys.
I was light-headed, my senses overwhelmed. The many-storied buildings along the city streets both delighted and frightened me. The horses carried us onto a residential street where houses lined up like rows of crops as far as the eye could see, each fighting for its own patch of dirt. The hilly terrain felt familiar. Hills, I knew. But these hills were different. Busier. Alien.
Jack was chatting about our destination, a boarding house he had frequently patronized. It was operated by a young widow, he said, but I paid more attention to my surroundings than to his prattle.
Two cable cars whirred by, barely missing a woman crossing the street. A man on a bicycle zipped between two automobiles—putting his life at needless risk—and everywhere people rushed past on foot or in carriages. The entire conglomeration of people and conveyances crisscrossed each other in a scene of utter chaos. Accidents waiting to happen. Whole streets splayed out with no sign of tree or shrub or flower. Despite the herds of people, the city proper felt dead, devoid of all things green or growing.
Jack called out for the carriage to stop and he helped me out. Much as I anticipated exploring this new city, my legs nearly buckled from the strangeness of it all. Never had I imagined any place in the world like San Francisco.
I waited one step below Jack on the boarding house stoop, my attention riveted on automobiles rumbling down the street. The pair of horses harnessed to the carriage whinnied and stamped nervously. Understandable. The contraptions made me nervous, too, though I longed to ride in one.
The Widow Hansen did not invite us in. Perhaps the age of my stepmother but much more attractive with a fine figure and full, pouty lips, she stood on the threshold of her three-story frame home, upturned nose tilted toward an overcast sky. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Joyner. My rooms are all let.”
Jack pulled me forward and bestowed his lop-sided smile on the widow. “Come on, Mrs. Hansen, be a sport. My wife has had a long journey. The sign in the window says ‘Rooms Available.’ It’s not as if I ran out on my bill the last time I stayed with you. You know me.”
The chin raised a notch. “Yes, I do.”
I prickled at her tone. If I wasn’t mistaken, it implied censure.
The widow looked me full in the eyes without a hint of warmth or welcome. “I’m sorry for your pretty little wife—”
I stiffened. What had I done to offend her, to deserve this hostility?
“—but I rented the last room a week ago,” the widow was saying. “Been so busy I haven’t h
ad time to take down the sign.”
Jack pressed his lips together. “Fine. There are plenty of boarding houses around that want our money.” He took my elbow and guided me back to the carriage. The driver clucked at the horses and the carriage lurched forward. I looked back at Mrs. Hansen’s boarding house. A hand brushed aside the curtain and whisked away the sign advertising rooms. Perhaps I’d imagined her disapproval.
A few blocks away on Sacramento Street, my husband called out for the driver to stop. Jack bolted up the steps to a house nearly identical to the Widow Hansen’s, except it was brick. This time the hostess welcomed us. Mrs. Priester was considerably older than Mrs. Hansen, perhaps in her late thirties, with a round face blessed by cheery dimples, her hair arranged in a pleasantly sloppy topknot. Where Mrs. Hansen’s eyes had been cold, Mrs. Priester’s eyes were as warm and brown as the cup of hot chocolate she offered to make if we decided to stay.
She showed us the rooms, apologizing. “I’m afraid the bedroom is rather cramped.”
Behind Mrs. Priester’s back, Jack waggled his eyebrows at me. “Plenty big enough for its purpose.”
I made a face at him, feigning displeasure and swallowing a bubble of laughter. We followed Mrs. Priester into a sitting room smelling faintly of lavender. I choked back a sob, thinking of my mother. “It’s right homey, Mrs. Priester.”
Actually, it was fancier than any home I’d ever seen, but I was trying to pretend I was used to such luxury. Pale lemon walls warmed with light from the windows. A seafoam green loveseat and matching brocade chair were grouped around a mahogany coffee table with what I later learned were called Queen Anne legs. A sampler in primary colors hung on the wall, embroidered, I suspected, by Mrs. Priester herself. One corner held a tea cart, and in another, a captain’s chair was pushed under a mahogany secretary. I could imagine writing a long letter to my brother Timmy while ensconced in that chair, and we could use the narrow slots to manage household bills.
Jack threw open the window and hailed the driver to carry our trunks to the second fl oor.
After Mrs. Priester withdrew to make cocoa, I hung my gowns in the chiffarobe to the left of the bed. I touched up my hair in the oval mirror mounted above the dressing table. The only other furniture in the bedroom was a ladder back chair in front of the table, but Mrs. Priester had made the room welcoming with floral wallpaper, rose-colored curtains at the window, and a matching dust ruffle on the bed.
When I re-entered the adjoining sitting room, I found Jack sprawled across the loveseat. He dallied one hand up my calf, lifting my skirt as he progressed. When he reached the back of my knees, I smacked his hand lightly.
“That tickles.”
“I predict we will put this loveseat to good use.”
I sat next to him and rubbed my nose against his. “You are a wicked man, Jack Joyner.”
“You love it.”
Mrs. Priester rapped at the door to the apartment. “Cocoa’s ready whenever you are.”
Jack ran his tongue around the hollow of my neck and whispered, “Send her away.”
I straightened my blouse. “Be right there.”
“Our new landlady has quite a bay window, don’t you think?”
Jack said, referring to her belly, on his way downstairs.
“I expect the birth of two younguns accounts for the loss of a girlish waist.”
“How do you know she has children?”
“Portraits in the parlor.”
Jack’s eyebrows raised, questioning. “No sign of brats around.”
“Don’t mention them,” I whispered. “She might have lost them. You wouldn’t want to stir up a pot of sorrows.”
“Hadn’t thought of that.”
Course he hadn’t. Just like a man to think he knew everything.
Once we were seated near the center of the twelve-foot dining table, Mrs. Priester served the cocoa in china cups, each a different pattern. “Sorry the cups don’t match, but you can pick up such bargains at auctions if you’re willing to take broken sets.”
My cup was silver-rimmed with pink and violet flowers. We Krauses had never owned anything half so lovely. “They’re charming. Really, the whole house is.”
Mrs. Priester settled into the chair across from us and beamed. “Your house now, too. And you must call me Nellie—short for Eleanor—since we are to share a home.”
“Everyone calls me Ro,” I said, smiling.
Jack said, “Time to leave childhood nicknames behind. You’re married now.” The smile fell from my face, and perhaps realizing how annoyed I was, he added, “Besides, Rosella is such a beautiful name. It would be a shame not to use it.”
That somewhat mollified me. “I’m glad you fancy it, but Nellie must call me Ro. It will make me feel at home. Everything’s so strange here. Living in such a big town’ll take considerable getting used to.” My voice didn’t even sound right in this parlor. The words tumbled out all wrong. Bumpkinish. Not like Nellie’s manner of speaking at all. Did I sound funny to Jack, too? Probably not, since he had West Virginia kin. I realized I didn’t even know where he’d been raised. He brushed off all questions about his family.
A flash of irritation crossed Jack’s face when I expressed my preference, but he deferred to me. “If that’s what you want.”
Nellie Priester rushed to dispel this uncomfortable clash of opinions, and at once I recognized in her similarities to my mother, both peacemakers, both so busy making their nests comfortable for others they were always a bit harried and disheveled themselves. “It’ll be so nice to have another woman around. One left two months ago when she married, and her new husband whisked her off to Oregon. Said it was too crowded in the city for his taste. Seems as if no one can settle in one place for long. Whole country’s got moving fever.”
Jack finished the last of his cocoa and leaned away from the table. “That’s good news for the railroad business. I’ll be up in Oregon myself quite a bit late this fall and in El Paso as well. I’m happy to know my wife will have your company while I’m away.”
As the reality of his impending absence sank in, my ribs squeezed together until I thought my heart had slid up and lodged in my throat. Surely he wouldn’t stay away long. I rose and wandered over to a large hutch, unable to resist stroking the ears of a small brown stuffed animal. “Is this one of them Teddy’s bears?” It seemed the President not shooting that bear had started a fad.
“Yes, I think they’re so cute. I made this little fellow myself.”
The front door squeaked open and the homeliest man I had ever seen entered. He was tall and thin, a candlestick of a man, with fevered intelligence burning in his eyes. Wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. When he removed his hat, however, his thick hair was the rich color of freshly ground nutmeg.
Nellie Priester rose to fetch another cup. “Valentine, you’re just in time for cocoa with our new family members, the Joyners.”
“So pleased to meet you,” he said.
“How do,” I replied.
For the briefest of moments, the young man hesitated, an eyebrow lifted, and shame crept over me. I’d said something the wrong way. I realized then I hadn’t heard anyone say how do since I’d left home. People would think me odd. A bumpkin. A backwards hillbilly. Then the widest of smiles lit his face, completely transforming his features, so much so that I revised my first impression. He was not homely at all.
“If you’re going to be family, you must call me Val.” He dropped a handful of Tootsie Rolls on the tablecloth. “Your favorite, Nellie, I didn’t forget you. There’s enough for everyone. Help yourselves. I’ve just seen the most amazing stereograph of natives in the South Pacific. By golly, I’d like to visit those islands someday. Ever been?”
No one had, so Val stumbled onto the next subject, the Chautauqua he attended the week before in Boulder. He took cello lessons from a master cellist, studied mathematics, brushed up on his French, and heard lectures on women’s suffrage and self improvement.
&nb
sp; I listened with amazement to the young man’s enthusiasm on every subject.
Nellie Priester noted my wide-eyed expression and laughed. “Our Val is quite accomplished.”
“What’s your profession, Mr. Martin?” I asked in my best proper English, though I could hear in my vowels a twang missing from Mrs. Priester’s voice. How would I ever fit in here if I sounded strange to everyone?
He grimaced. “I fear I neither play the cello nor speak French well enough to pay the bills. I am a medical student.”
“He’s overly modest.” Nellie gathered the cups. I rose to help. “Val is quite wonderful at everything he does. He’s even experimenting with medicinal compounds, isn’t that right?”
His brown eyes sparkled again. “I have this idea to distill willow bark—everyone knows it kills pain but upsets the stomach, right? So I mix it with peppermint, chamomile, and ginger, which dispel the gastronomic side effects. I regret to say I have yet to perfect the formula.”
He excused himself and I listened to the tapping of his steps as he fairly ran to the third fl oor.
“An interesting fellow,” Jack said.
“Kind, too. They don’t come any better than our Mr. Martin. I will share a secret, though. His family surname was Martino. Th ey anglicized it when they came over. I can’t blame them—the way some people carry on about the Italians, the Polish and the Chinese, but I don’t hold with such nonsense. Our Val is a fine fellow. Always pays his rent on time. If it bothers you living with an Italian, you’ll have to find somewhere else to stay.” Jack and I looked at each other, shook our heads, and Jack assured her we harbored no objection.
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