Prospects of a Woman

by Wendy Voorsanger

  You were as fair as I dreamed you would be;

  I loved and left you for I never could deny

  The gypsy strain in me.

  Lightly as a song, going where I please;

  Journeying along with every vagrant breeze.

  Up a hill, down a stream

  I follow in a dream.

  Long have I traveled, my love

  Since the night we met,

  Seeking in wandering

  A way to forget.

  But it’s no matter by what path I may depart

  I can’t escape from my Malagueña.

  Reading the set of words again slapped her with shame at loving the man in the first place. She resolved to not think on him again. Resolved to begin anew. Be a better woman, without a speck of him lingering inside her belly or her heart. Filled with boldness and hope, she whispered, Fly away, to the place where your daydreams start. Then she buckled her knees and tumbled down.

  34

  To the place where daydreams start

  Up a hill, down a stream; I follow in a dream.

  Tumbling, twisted, bent crumpled, she flung herself down the hill, falling, pitching, stinging sideways and up ways down, crossing the main into the current of sand, savoring the river of Lethe, delivering from within, the power and the glory of forgetting, remembering, remaking herself anew. Together, alone with herself. Only.

  Seeking in wandering.

  And still. A little boy leaned in. Little Nemacio with lovely hair falling soft around his face, placid and recriminating. Eyes, sorrowful and seeing.

  A way to forget.

  Arms were cradling her, pushing her shoulder back into place. Wrapping her ribs tight.

  Wracked with pain, she fainted.

  To the shore of the moonlit sea.

  She woke in a small room smelling of spicy chilies and garlic. A turbid candlelight cast murky shadows dancing around spooky on the bare white walls, pointing and screaming out blame and suffering and sin. She thrashed on the pillow, trying to shut out the demons dancing in her head.

  “You fell,” said a woman beside the bed.

  The voice sounded foggy and distant, and she wasn’t sure if was coming from a demon shadow.

  “You’re broken,” said the woman, placing a heavy hand on her arm.

  “I . . . I . . .,” Elisabeth started, but her lips were cracked dry and she couldn’t form proper words.

  “Bébelo,” said the woman.

  The woman wasn’t gentle, forcing her lips open and pouring liquid down her throat. It tasted foul and familiar and delicious, like the mezcal she’d shared with him that night on the ridge. She relished it warming her blood, slow and thick, as she drifted, the guilt searing between her legs a dulling thud, thud, thud. Reminding. Remembering.

  You were as fair as I dreamed you would be.

  When the woman removed a bloody dressing from inside, a painful stabbing cramped her middle. She turned as the woman tended to her bloodied dress, tearing at the seams and pulling it off.

  “The baby is gone,” said the woman.

  The woman was a witness. She knew. Nothing more grew inside. It was finished.

  Your eyes shamed the purple sky.

  “This needs to go inside,” said the woman.

  She tried to focus on the white gauzy bulb dangling in front of her face. It looked like a little floating angel, fuzzy and soft at the edges. Murky. Fading, drifting, weak. The woman opened Elisabeth’s legs and pushed in the packing. Pain seared up through her gut.

  “You are free now,” said the woman.

  Lightly as a song, going where I please.

  “Forgive . . .” Elisabeth began, trying to sit up.

  Dizziness consumed her, churning up the room with haunts and sins and sickness. She vomited down her chest and fell back on the bed. The woman wiped her mouth with a soft cloth, and she burned with disgrace, spiraling in shame. No one was supposed to see. To know. She’d not planned it like this. Sorrow and relief and guilt sat heavy on her rotted heart.

  “It’s not my forgiveness you need,” said the woman.

  She offered more drink, and Elisabeth gulped and gulped and burned and closed her eyes, floating away.

  To the place where daydreams start.

  35

  It’s no matter by what path I may depart

  After several more days of fitful sleep, Elisabeth woke with a dull ache in her middle. Lying in an iron bedstead with a white coverlet, she saw a wooden cross looming on the opposite wall, accusing, and a red lace curtain covering a single window, barely holding back the foggy light. The garlic wasn’t inside her anymore, only a light dressing between her legs.

  A little girl came into the room, offering a tin cup of ginger tea. She took it, sipping eager, grateful.

  “Mama. Mama. La mujer está despierta,” said the little girl.

  A tall woman entered the room with a straight back and a strong, soft stride. She opened the curtain, letting in the dim ray of light.

  “I’m sorry . . .” Elisabeth said through labored breathing.

  “You’ve no need for apology,” said the woman.

  She convalesced in the adobe of Gabriella Sanchez, a Californio woman who’d fled her mean drunkard of a husband down in Monterrey with her seven children to build one of the largest ranchos in California, with over fifty head of cattle grazing at the base of Telegraph Hill. Known all around San Francisco for her hospitality, Señora Sanchez treated every vagrant and sick and deserting sailor seeking solace and refuge. Generous and astute with healing, she used Spanish cures for any ill from dysentery to homesickness, and was well loved by Californios and Americans alike.

  “How long have I been here?”

  “Six days,” said Señora Sanchez.

  Shifting in the bed, she winced as her middle hurt.

  “Two broken ribs. And your shoulder. I set it right,” said Señora Sanchez, speaking in perfect English.

  A tall woman with broad shoulders and strong arms, Señora Sanchez spread herself around the room. She wore a high-neck dress of raw red silk, much too fancy and clean for a working dress.

  “I need to go,” said Elisabeth, trying to sit up.

  A sharp pain stabbed her middle again, and she fell back weak against the soft goose down pillow.

  “You’ll not likely carry a child again,” said Señora Sanchez.

  Elisabeth gulped air, relieved.

  Señora Sanchez didn’t ask why she did it. Didn’t reproach. She simply stated the situation then allowed her to stay and heal. Elisabeth remained in bed two weeks while her bones and delicate insides stitched themselves back together, the whole time marveling at Señora Sanchez’s steady constitution. Even with all those children, Señora Sanchez never seemed to rile up or drain down. Aged ten to twenty-four, those Sanchez children milled about the ranch, milking cows, plucking chickens, washing laundry. In the evenings, when Señora Sanchez’s lady maid rang the supper bell, they all came from every which way to sit at a long dining table, chatting and laughing while gobbling up a supper that smelled of limes and cilantro and love.

  Hiding away in that little room off the kitchen, Elisabeth grew stronger as she listened to the comforting sounds of family at the Sanchez Rancho. They made her mourn over the family she’d never have, and she couldn’t wait to escape their sweetness. Beautiful children crept everywhere. Too many eyes. Too many hearts. She didn’t deserve their kindness and hankered for a spot of whiskey to dull her shame. But she remembered the promise she’d made to God to quit.

  By the third week, she was desperate to get out from under all that stifling Sanchez generosity. She asked for her dress; she’d been wearing an unfamiliar sleeping shift.

  “Too much blood,” said Señora Sanchez.

  Looking out the window at the rolling grassy hills, she wondered about the letter in the pocket of her dress.

  “Perhaps a boy could go to the Sully House and get my . . .”

  “My daughter Carmelita will giv
e you a dress,” said Señora Sanchez.

  Fitted perfect and fancy, the dress seemed made for her, in bright yellow satin, buttoned up the front with twenty buttons and white lace trim high around the neck, just like the sort of dress she always wanted. She’d been used to wearing loose dresses trimmed up short with pantaloons sticking out underneath. And she hadn’t worn a corset since coming over the Isthmus of Panama with Nate three years ago. Señora Sanchez fit her up tight into a whalebone corset and bodice, saying they’d help knit her ribs back into place faster. The whole fitted ensemble felt luxurious but at the same time painful and confining. Señora Sanchez brushed her long hair until it felt soft then braided it, tying four neat plaits around her head. Grateful and overwhelmed, Elisabeth promised to return the dress once she settled back at the Sully House.

  “I’ll pay for your troubles,” she said.

  “I have no troubles,” said Señora Sanchez.

  “For taking me in,” she said.

  “You can’t pay for kindness when I offer it free.”

  Señora Sanchez took her hands, placing the folded-up letter from Nemacio in her palm. Elisabeth tucked it away in her pocket, hoping to forget. The Sanchez children gathered around as Elisabeth climbed in the wagon seat beside Jorge, Señora Sanchez’s eldest son. She smiled and waved polite, eager to begin again, without burden.

  Back at the boarding house, Elisabeth climbed out of the carriage gingerly, thanking Jorge. Mr. Sully insisted she pay for the two weeks she’d been gone at the Sanchez Rancho. She found ten dollars she’d forgotten in her valise and paid him half, saying she’d go to the bank to get more. Still weak from lying in bed, she ached on her left side with each breath as she walked all the way to the Pioneer Bank on Market Street to see Mr. John Langley about her mining shares.

  Back from Sacramento, Mr. Langley walked out of his office with the shiny brass buckles of his shoes flashing fancy with each step. He showed her into his office, offering her a seat. He left the door open, but Elisabeth didn’t relax into the plump leather and instead sat straight so Mr. Langley might take her more serious.

  An Englishman, John Langley looked near fifty, stuffed into a brown suit with a paisley brocade vest and a gold watch chain dangling from his pocket. Orange freckles splattered his sallow face just like Ginny, and a long shiny scar ran down the side of his right cheek. His red hair thinned flat down the sides of his head into bushy mutton chop sideburns. A mustache of the same red covered nearly his whole top lip, moving up and down like a fuzzy caterpillar. When he spoke with a slight lisp, Elisabeth strained to grab the uneven cadence of his words.

  “Elisabeth Parker. A pleasure indeed. Tell me, what’s your business with me today?”

  “The Pioneer Bank holds the shares in my mining certificates.”

  “Which ones have you got?”

  From behind a large oak desk, Mr. Langley leaned over and flashed an eager smile when she placed the certificates in front of him.

  “None of my customers are doing much speculating right now. They’re waiting to see what those deep well mines yield this coming summer. See what all the new digging technology brings up. There’s a current pause, if you will, a hold after the flurry of buying last year,” he said, passing his eyes over her lot of certificates.

  “I’m in need of cashing out now, Mr. Langley.”

  Elisabeth explained how she’d lost her whole livelihood in the Manzanita City fire, her entire worth tied in the books and paper and wood and ink, now blown away like ashes on a wicked wind.

  “A sorry plight. But I tell you, no one will buy shares in those mines until one of them shows a profit,” he said, shaking his head.

  “I need access to funds so I can get going again,” she explained.

  “What’s your strategy?” Mr. Langley asked, lifting his eyebrows.

  “To open another book and print shop.”

  He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands behind his head. He took a deep breath and explained the current business conditions in a long-winded sermon, listing off at length his stakes in the more successful ventures in California. Brannan Mining Supplies. Alfred Munroe Clothing Establishment. Ghirardelli Chocolate Manufactory. Genin Hatter. Sutro Tobacconist. The Pioneer Steam Coffee and Spice Mill. Greenberg’s Brass Foundry. She listened carefully, taking notes in her mind.

  “San Francisco is already filled up with plenty of printers and at least three book shops. What makes you think you’ll do any better?”

  She wrung her gloved hands in her lap, hoping Mr. Langley thought her a proper woman from a good family, educated in eastern schools. She looked the part, with that beautiful dress borrowed from Carmelita Sanchez and that precious abalone comb from Nemacio in her long brown hair.

  “I’m not naive, Mr. Langley. I know what it takes to run a shop. I’ve the experience.”

  “Where’s Mr. Parker?”

  “I’m unmarried.”

  “Not married? A lovely girl like you?”

  She ignored Mr. Langley’s simple attempts at flirtation. This wasn’t her first go-around, and Mr. Langley looked a feeble match against her determination to own herself from here on out.

  “My father died,” Elisabeth lied.

  Henry Goodwin could be dead now, for all she knew, so that wasn’t exactly a lie. She looked into Mr. Langley’s face, waiting. Intent. Hoping on compassion.

  “I suppose I can offer you a loan against your shares,” he said. “In one claim only, mind you. At twenty-five percent interest.”

  “That’s robbery!”

  “I don’t take advantage of anyone, especially not such a lovely lady as yourself. Twenty-five percent is the going interest rate in San Francisco. Ask around, if you please.”

  Borrowing against speculation felt irresponsible at best. She wasn’t stupid and would never pay such outrageous interest when she had no means for paying it.

  “Why don’t you buy my shares yourself, Mr. Langley?”

  “As the president of the Pioneer Bank and Trust, I’m waiting to see how the market turns, just like the rest. I can’t jeopardize my investments, or my reputation. My clients depend upon me to keep their investments safe.”

  She pushed the mining certificates for the Big Rock Mine toward him, not letting on how she’d engraved the woodblock design and printed the certificate herself, with three elaborate rectangle swirls bordered fine, clear lettering stating the strike price of twenty dollars a share.

  “Buying shares in Big Rock at the strike price is good business for you. And I know this mine,” she said, tapping her finger on the certificate.

  “What do you know?”

  “I’ve seen it myself. Near a huge vein of granite and quartz.”

  It wasn’t true. She’d never visited the Big Rock Mine. But Mr. Langley would never know.

  “Those boys are digging deep. Yielding considerable,” she said.

  “I’ll pay under the strike price,” said Mr. Langley.

  “How much less?”

  “Five dollars less.”

  “Mr. Langley, with all due respect. Big Rock has potential to be the deepest mine in the Pacers, right on Big Rock Creek with plenty of water running all summer long.”

  “Happy to hear, since the Pioneer Bank is heavily invested in the Big Rock Mine.”

  “A respectable banker like you, making a girl sell her shares underwater? Really, Mr. Langley! I expected more of you, based on what I’d heard of your reputation.”

  She stared at Mr. Langley, serious. He sniffled, and she kept quiet, holding firm.

  “How about you go out to dinner with me and I’ll consider it?”

  She needed money to get by on her own in San Francisco. Needed to eat and to pay Mr. Sully for next week’s room. But she had no interest in getting tangled up with another man.

  “Buy my shares at the strike price of twenty dollars a piece, and I’ll consider it,” she said.

  He laughed out loud then, a joyous laugh that roared and roared througho
ut his cavernous bank. She’d hooked him. Mr. Langley offered a strike price of twenty dollars a piece for four of her ten shares in the Big Rock Creek Mine. At eighty dollars, she accepted, since she hadn’t paid anything for the shares in the first place, only traded her labor engraving and printing the mining certificate. For now, she’d have to wait to cash out the other six of her shares in Big Rock and those in the other three mines. Hold off on starting up a new business. As John Langley walked her to the lobby, he offered his arm. Still feeling weak, she took it, leaning on him, grateful. Up close, Elisabeth saw beads of sweat collecting around Mr. Langley’s mustache, and he smelled like old cheese.

  “When shall I pick you up for supper?”

  “I’ll consider it, Mr. Langley,” she said.

  “Soon, Miss Parker. I do hope,” he said.

  As she walked down the steps into the drifting San Francisco fog, the words Miss Parker sounded strange, like she was still an innocent girl. After all she’d lived and done, she was hardly innocent. But the married “Mrs.” didn’t fit either, since she no longer belonged to Nate. The title before a woman’s name signifying who she belonged to—father or husband—seemed unsuitable for her now. She thought there ought to be a title for a woman who didn’t belong to a man but could no longer claim being a girl with the chaste innocence of a Miss. Elisabeth wanted an altogether new title for herself, a surname signifying her new, independent state. A break from husband and father. She considered changing her name altogether but knew she needed to keep things clear about her one-third title deed in the Goodwin Claim. No sense in confusing the Manzanita City assayer, and getting the title all mixed with a new name. So she settled on Miss—Miss Parker. Nothing she could do about folks thinking her more innocent than she really was.

  36

  February 1853

  Dearest Louisa May,

  Please forgive me for not writing in so many months, and for so much more. I must admit, dear LM, I lost my way, if only temporarily, brought on by the poor choices presented to me and the grand heartbreak of living and loving. If I’m truthful with myself and with you, I must also blame my own greed. I grasped for more than a virtuous woman should. In the end, I fault myself and my own fanciful thinking. I’ll not commit all my transgressions to paper, as the burden would surely be too much for you to bear. I do confess, however, my honesty has been lacking, as I’ve set down many falsehoods to you as mere wishes and hopes, presenting a not wholly accurate accounting of events that have transpired during these past years out here in California. Fearing your judgment, my transgressions extend to telling falsehoods. I understand now how a woman beset by extreme circumstances and bleak prospects tends to choose unwisely. I do not ask for absolution but only your forgiveness, as penance is a yoke I must now wear. I assure you, I am fully sound, even with my pride stripped bare, and having lost my living beyond all boundaries. If only you were here to help me find what I’m looking for. Although, your ever-present voice is always with me, telling me I cannot find what I have not lost. Forthwith, I promise to write only truths, choosing the bright light of honesty in redeeming myself before God. I shall remain mute on detailing the more shameful matters, as I do not wish to disturb your peaceful well-being, but prefer instead you know me not as a woman with a selfish nature but as a woman of substance, seeking a path of temperance and self-restraint.