“His secret is safe with us.” I pinched my lips between my fingers to show my mouth was sealed.
Two other small rooms on the third floor were let periodically to a variety of gentlemen whenever they were in town. “I don’t consider them family, though,” Mrs. Priester said. “They don’t oft en take meals with us or visit in the parlor.”
Her gossip finished, she urged us to follow her through the downstairs rooms, pointing out things she’d made: needlepoint upholstery for the dining room chairs, candlewick pillows on the parlor settee, a cupboard drawer full of afghans, fanning through them to expose blue, emerald, and garnet yarns in various patterns.
I knelt down and lay my palm against the soft texture of one. “Must have taken years to make all these.”
“Not really. Crocheting goes fast. One of my friends has a little store and sells my pieces on consignment. You must choose one, any one you like.”
I could feel my face redden. It must have sounded as if I had
been fishing for this invitation. “I couldn’t.” “Nonsense, I insist. My wedding gift to you.” After multiple professions of gratitude, I settled on a soft green
design. Nellie drew water for our baths. I soaked a long while, then dressed, and relinquished the tub to my husband.
Following an early meal in the dining room, Nellie nodded, a motion that doubled the folds under her chin. “I expect you’ll need a rest after such a long journey.”
Jack grinned. “I expect we do.”
December 21, 1903
Dear “Favorite Sis,”
How I laffed when I saw how you signed your letter of November 23. Even if I had a dozen, you would still be my favorite sister. I bout busted my buttons when I read the part about you expecting a new addition. If ever a girl was born to mother, it’s you, Ro. Josiah’s wife expects a new arrival round the same time. They moved in with us soon after you lit out. The house is sumwat crowded, but after father cut his leg up in a haying accident, he needed Josie’s help. Oak Hall construction was nearly done anyway, and Josie would have soon gone looking for another job.
Remember how we used to squirt each other during the milking? You should bring your little un home when he gets growed some and I could teach him stuff. Milking. Turkey calling. Jumping into the nearest hidey-hole when Martha comes hunting you for chores. I think it’ll be a boy, don’t you? We’d have us some laffs.
You sure are having a grand time in San Francisco. I hope to visit some day and see the things you describe for myself. The train ride would be the best thing of all. We shore missed you at Thanksgiving and know Christmas won’t be the same without you at all.
You asked about father. No, I am sorry to say he has not forgiven you yet. Steam fairly boils outa his nose and ears when anyone’s fool enough to speak your name. Seems he borrowed a pile of money from Gunner Beck. They had them an understanding that once you two married, the land along the willow pond next to Gunner’s place would be deeded over. Father’s finances are a mess—again. Gunner is grousing about the broken agreement, but I’m sure they’ll come up with new terms for the loan once tempers cool down.
Martha’s tongue hasn’t softened any since you left. She is fussing mightily over father’s idea to give Josie that land along the willow pond to build a house. In return, Josie would hire himself out to Gunner as a farm hand till the loan is repaid. Also, he would continue helping father on the farm. A good deal for us, since otherwise Josie would keep his family in town and hire onto another construction crew. But you know Martha—real angshuss to get Josie and Louisa and little Hermie and Sally out of the house before their new baby arrives. She is no more fond of children than ever, especially Hermie—poor child always feeling the sting of her switch.
I’m not sure Martha knows how bad father’s injured. Ever step is hurtful, though he does his best to hide it. I do the chickens and the milking, but now that school has started up, I have less time for other chores. Martha is nagging at father to take me out of school. He says no, but for once I agree with that womin. I am nearly eleven and how much schooling do I need for farming? None, I say.
Sending much love from, Your Favorite Brother (Me, I hope)
Timmy
January 10, 1904
Dear Timmy,
Don’t you dare stop going to school. At least stick it out through the rest of the year and finish sixth grade. You are the brightest of all my brothers and can make something of yourself. Why, you are so quick with numbers, someday you could work in a bank. Or a hardware store. Maybe once you are growed, you will come to San Francisco and Mr. Martin (our fellow boarder) will get you a job at the U.S. Mint where his father works—imagine that!
I am sorry to hear of father’s injury. I am hoping he improves soon. I knew nothing about this agreement with Gunner, but if I had, I still wouldn’t have married the old goat. I am sorry the rest of you must suffer because of father’s broken promise. Learn from this, Timmy. Never make promises you can’t keep.
Tell Josiah and Louisa I am happy about their news. Now, you must keep this to yourself, but you are and ever will be— pinky swear—my favorite. Our secret, right?
Much love,
Your Favorite Sister, Ro
San Francisco, 1920
“Growed? Mama, I’ve never once heard you use such poor grammar,” Solina said, the thin paper of my letter crinkling between her delicate fingers. “This doesn’t even sound like you.” Well, it wasn’t. The Rosella who had written that letter was a girl lost long ago, a girl still cloaked in the greens of the hills and hollows, whose voice still echoed with the burble of creeks, a girl more familiar with the smell of damp hay, cow manure, and warm milk than the French perfumes sold in the city’s department stores. She was Ro Krause. Rosella Joyner was a different creature altogether.
As soon as Jack and I had settled in at the boarding house, I approached Nellie. “I want you to learn me how to talk proper so as I fit in here.”
Gently she corrected my grammar. “I’d be happy to teach you, honey. In no time at all, you’ll catch on.” Under Nellie’s tutelage, I left that country girl behind. And I insisted that no child of mine would ever sound uneducated, so Solina had never heard me use bad grammar.
“People change over the course of their lives, dear. Remember when you used to detest potatoes—and now you love them?”
Solina shook her head, and I couldn’t resist touching the lovely dark curls tumbling down her shoulders. “That’s different. Mama, none of this makes sense. Why would you have this letter, the one you wrote to your brother?”
I sighed. “Timmy let it slip that we were writing to each other. My father intercepted my letters and returned them, unopened. Timmy wrote a few more times, wondering why I didn’t write back. That’s how I knew what was happening, so I mailed letters to Jack’s Aunt Elizabeth and she would pass them to my brother secretly.”
“Your father was such a meanie. I still don’t understand how you—what you could have done to make the newspaper say these things about you. A bigamist. A baby killer. Why would they say these things?”
I wasn’t quite sure how the paper had come up with all the details in that story, such a mixture of truth and falsehoods, but I was determined to learn their source. Who had spread this poison and what did they hope to gain?
“I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of,” I said.
Solina tilted her head to one side. “Why would the reporter make up those horrible lies?”
“No more questions until I’m done telling the whole story— that’s what we agreed. You’ll understand everything, all in good time. Now, let’s get dressed. Nellie will be here soon. We’re going over to the Kennesons to oversee preparations for the reception.” At least I hoped there would still be a reception. Hoped the gallery wouldn’t cancel my show.
I smiled with more confidence than I felt. “I’m looking forward to seeing Mindy. It’s been ages.” I could picture Mindy’s sweet heart-shaped face with its delicate fe
atures, nearly perfect except for a slight concavity, as if the Good Lord had pushed gently against the center with His thumb. A face that reminded me of Nellie’s jam thumbprint cookies, though the comparison seemed unkind. Mindy favored pastel fluff y, ruffled gowns, her step so light she appeared to float, untethered by the same gravity affecting mere mortals. Her fairylike appearance led many, including myself on more than one occasion, to underestimate her depth, her intelligence, her ingenuity.
“Does Aunt Nellie know the truth?”
Mostly, but this was no time to be wishy-washy. “Absolutely.”
“Do the Kennesons?”
“Stop fretting. Nellie will defend me should anyone repeat these lies.” But I could count on Nellie’s old friend Alexandra Underwood to spread the gossip to all with ears. Would Alexandra attend the reception? She owned quite a few pieces of my pottery, some of which she’d loaned to the gallery for the show, according to Mindy.
“How well do you know the Kennesons?”
“They have been dear friends since well before you were born.” I’d met the Underwoods and Kennesons soon after we’d moved in to Nellie’s. “I’ll tell you all about it when Aunt Nellie picks us up in her new car.”
“Is Aunt Nellie rich?”
My goodness—questions questions, and more questions. “No, but she has done quite well for herself since we moved back east. Now scoot and get dressed so we don’t keep her waiting.”
Finally Solina stopped interrogating me, and I went down to the lobby to check for messages. When I returned, Solina was still not dressed. Instead, she was furiously scribbling in that diary of hers. Whatever did she find to write about in there every day? I feared she was complaining about me, her appalling mother, the bigamist and baby killer. I sighed. I suppose she found solace in writing as I did in my art and pottery.
I crossed the room and placed my hand over hers to still the flow of words. “We must go. Please get ready.”
She made a face, but closed her little book and donned a rose gown with pink sash that looked stunning with all those dark curls tumbling down her shoulders. A truly beautiful young woman, though I could take little credit for that. As we descended to the hotel lobby, Solina wavered, as if she might bolt back to our room at any moment. “Mama, how can you hold your head up after all the things they said?”
I reached back and tugged her hand. “That’s exactly why we’re going out. You must always hold your head high, no matter what anyone says about you. You are just as good as anyone else, always remember that.”
Even if you feel puny because of your country bumpkin ways.
Especially then.
January 1904
The telegram dangled from my fingers. I stared out the front window at the carriages hurtling down the hill in front of the boarding house. Jack—delayed again. Already he’d been gone three months and we were behind on our rent. Nellie said not to worry, but how could I not? I pulled his shirt from the chiffarobe and pressed it to my face. Traces of his apple-scented tobacco scent melted my bones. If only I could hold him for a few hours. Even a few minutes. I missed him so—and yet . . . quite unexpectedly, our excursions together to San Francisco’s department stores had stirred in me an attitude of generalized resentment toward the world. Inevitably, shop girls looked to Jack for approval of purchases, rather than to me—even if it concerned a gown that, obviously, I would wear. But did the girls ask if I liked it? Not at all. I was dismissed with barely a glance. Their eyes were all for Jack—and not simply because he was young and handsome. His jurisdiction over all financial concerns gilded him with a stature that I, as a woman, lacked. The shop girls’ betrayals wounded me.
When he’d forbidden me to explore the city on my own without him or Nellie to accompany me, my resentment had multiplied tenfold. Why could men roam freely when women couldn’t? Although I was somewhat mollified as my husband explained certain neighborhoods were dangerous, his attempts to restrict my movements still angered me. He was gone so often, and Nellie had a boarding house to run. I had a bad case of what we would have called cabin fever back in West Virginia.
Besides, no man, not even my husband, was going to dictate what I could and could not do. Never again. I refused to spend another minute cooped up in these rooms. A walk, fresh air—that’s what I needed. I should be perfectly safe as long as I remained on the main streets.
It never got as bitter cold here as back home, but often there was a damp cold that settled in the bones. I pulled on my coat. I slipped out of the house and gave the streetcar conductor a nickel for a ride downtown. I nodded at a working girl who looked about my age. She had broad, plain features, Polish perhaps. I tried to imagine where she worked—in a hotel as a maid? Afternoon shift in a factory? I smiled and then theatrically offered a half-grimace, shaking my umbrella for emphasis. “I expect it will rain today.”
The girl wrinkled her nose. “Rains every day,” she said in heavily accented English.
She was right. Every day a downpour.
Even such a pitiful, tenuous connection to a fellow San Franciscan lifted my spirits, but I could think of no way to extend the conversation. Opening my sketchbook, I drew a rough outline of the girl’s face. Her nose turned up, her best feature.
At Mission and Third, I got off and made my way toward the Claus Spreckels Building. Its crenellated rotunda towered above the other buildings and kept me oriented. I strode as if I had a purpose along this street where mostly men hurried along to conduct their business at the Winchester Hotel, Mutual Bank, New York Loan Office, or the Chronicle News Office—the buildings visible but still at some distance. I made sure to walk by the San Francisco Mint where Val Martin’s father worked. “The Granite Lady” was mostly built from sandstone rather than granite, according to Val, but it was one of the city’s most famous landmarks. Inside, prospectors’ gold was turned into coins. By the time I reached the Spreckels Building, it had indeed begun to rain and I put off my plan to sketch the skyline. I caught a streetcar back to Mrs. Priester’s. Growing up with five brothers, two parents, a cat, a flock of chickens, and small herd of cattle, I had never had opportunity to be idle. With little to do, I found myself bored. If only Jack were beside me!
When I opened Mrs. Priester’s door, I detected the fragrance of tea brewing. In a small dish in the foyer lay a calling card from Mrs. Alexandra Underwood. Again. Mrs. Underwood, whom Nellie Priester claimed was one of her oldest friends, sent her card over with a servant every Wednesday yet never came herself. I had never heard of calling cards and didn’t know what to make of this silly custom. Back home, if we wanted to see a friend, we just dropped by their house and we sat a spell together on the front porch if it was warm and in the kitchen if it wasn’t. To Nellie, I had confessed how awkward I felt, as if I’d been dropped smack dab into an alien world where folks spoke a different language and had such different ways.
To my surprise, strange voices came from the parlor. I walked through the arched entrance.
Nellie sashayed straight over and placed a sisterly arm about my shoulders. “Here she is, our Rosella. I’m so glad you got back in time to meet Mrs. Myrtle Kenneson and her lovely daughter Miss Mindy.”
“How do.” The greeting slipped out automatically. I winced and faked a cough that I hoped sounded ladylike, pressing a handkerchief to my mouth, to cover my error. “Pleased to meet you,” I amended.
The Mrs. sat on the left side of the rose settee with the daughter on the right. Mindy wore a pale blue gown with a low-cut, puffed bodice and narrow waist emphasized by a satin sash. I observed every detail of these obviously new clothes and the masses of honey-colored hair styled in the latest Gibson fashion—until I realized my examination bordered on rudeness.
I apologized, professing myself overcome with admiration for Miss Kenneson’s hairstyle.
Nellie suggested I try one of the lemon tea cakes our guests were already enjoying.
I placed a teacake on a china dessert plate and sat down across from the
visitors. I lifted the golden cake to my lips and indulged in a bite, pronouncing it delicious.
Nellie’s eyes warned me I’d made a mistake—but what? She side-eyed the tea table where the dessert forks lay, then flicked her gaze to the Kennesons’ forks resting on their plates.
I flushed. What a country mouse I must appear! Back home, the tea cake would be considered nothing more than a cookie, a finger food. Here I was—surrounded by thousands of people—and I had never felt more alone in my life. The Kennesons chatted about their favorite restaurants and about a recent trip to Paris. I tried to nod at appropriate times during their travelogue.
“Have you traveled much, Mrs. Joyner?” Mrs. Kenneson asked.
“I’m afraid not. Unless you count the train ride across the states to get here.”
Mindy smoothed the lace on her bodice. “So you’re from back East?”
“I grew up on a farm in West Virginia.”
“How wonderfully healthy that must have been,” Mrs. Kenneson said.
“I love Virginia.” Mindy’s voice shimmered, a pastel bouquet of rose, apricot, and lemon. “We often visit my cousins there. They raise quarter horses. Do you ride?”
“Uh . . . yes. Yes, I do.” Only old work horses, not the thoroughbreds they referred to. I refrained from correcting their impression that Virginia and West Virginia were one and the same. They were clearly so well-traveled, West Virginia’s statehood was probably the only thing I knew about the world that they didn’t. Thinking of the farm made me homesick. I missed my brothers. I missed the hill behind our home, sprinkled with wild strawberries in June and with luscious raspberries and blackberries later in summer. I even missed my father when he was in a good mood. I didn’t miss Martha because her mood was always as muddy and foul as a pig pen.
As the Kennesons’ chatter turned to a woman’s suffrage meeting to be held in their parlor the next week, I banished all thoughts of home.
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