Prospects of a Woman

by Wendy Voorsanger

  “I knew you was comin’. My jay fussed up something awful this morning,” said Nandy.

  Elisabeth and Julie pitched their tent behind the Gootch cabin, preferring Nandy and Billy Gootch over the comforts of a hotel with strangers. They stayed on three days, letting the horses fill up on the last of the late summer grass covering the hill behind Nandy’s bakery. Elisabeth was surprised to hear Nandy had sold enough bread to finally buy her son Andrew’s freedom, and his wife’s freedom too.

  “They’re coming overland. Due any week now.”

  “You did it, Nandy. Just like you said you would. You’re a marvel,” she said, meaning it with all her heart.

  “I own the land you’re standing on too. Gootch land. Bought the plot last month. For Andrew,” said Nandy, beaming. “Me and Billy, we’s gonna add on the cabin, make room for my boy and his woman. Might take a year, but I’m saving up for the wood now.”

  “Now you’re just braggin’,” said Elisabeth, giving Nandy a playful shove.

  “I ain’t funnin’. I did. I earned this Holy Land, flowing with milk and honey and freedom. Given to me by God. I’m never leaving.”

  She knew God didn’t give Nandy that land. She’d earned it. Fair and square. With her own blood and sweat and anguish and hope for her son. Setting a fine example. From then on, Elisabeth started seeing California though Nandy’s grateful eyes.

  Elisabeth helped out with the chores, mixing and flipping dough, and washing out pans and cleaning rags. She actually enjoyed the rush of activity in Culoma Town this time around, with no heavy worry about finding Henry or making Nate happy or carrying Nemacio’s baby. They suppered all together over at Captain Shannon’s place, meeting new townsfolk who’d recently settled in. She and Julie even danced with a few nice fellas who asked, and she enjoyed herself without the help of any drink.

  Nandy didn’t ask about the baby right away, but she’d never let something like that lie. On the second day, Elisabeth was chopping wood when Nandy cornered her.

  “Where is it?”

  Elisabeth leaned on the axe and wiped her brow, knowing she’d never admit the tumbling to Nandy or anyone else. She’d locked that something awful deep inside the marrow of her bones, and no amount of picking and digging would ever pry it lose.

  “I lost it,” she said.

  “What you mean, lost it?”

  “Came out before its due,” she said.

  “Before its due?”

  Elisabeth kept quiet, squirming on her feet, like a fly caught in honey.

  “That’s all you got to say?”

  “We all got something,” said Julie, walking up from washing at Dukehart’s bathhouse.

  “That right? What d’ya have?” Nandy asked Julie.

  Julie flipped her drippy wet hair around in circles to dry.

  “I’ve got something, too, that’s for sure. I just don’t want to tell it,” said Julie.

  “I don’t pry,” said Elisabeth, not letting on she knew.

  “I don’t pry neither,” said Nandy, who let both matters drop.

  They headed out on the trail the next morning, with Elisabeth promising to visit Nandy the following summer to meet Andrew. She gave Nandy a generous hug, thanking her for all she’d done to help get her though the rough patches.

  Traveling out of the American River basin, the women carried all the supplies they’d need for the mining edition of California Illustrated. Mining reports, summaries, yields, locations, contacts, and plenty of photographs. Elisabeth carried sweet memories of visiting with her friends, and enough passion with that Dane to last a while. Coming down through the wide golden foothills toward the sun hanging low and shining hard and hot, she left behind thoughts of Nate and his lover and her father who’d up and left and Nemacio who’d married another woman and the child she’d killed and all she would never have, toward her very own guilty broken-up heart, patched but still beating strong. She walked westward toward who she was and who she was yet to become, and she didn’t look back.

  44

  October 1853

  Dearest Louisa,

  Your recent letter struck me with compelling advice, if perhaps seen by many in the east as less than genteel, and even a little dangerous. I agree a woman might fare better, as you say, “remaining a free spinster to paddle her own canoe.” However, I still choose to consider the prospects of a passionate love, which has been known, on rare occasion, to bring extraordinary pleasure to a woman. If not lasting, then fleeting. I hope regardless, not yet counting myself among the desperate lot without prospects. There is appeal in the expected comforts of home and hearth promised by a husband, but comfort without independence or love isn’t really all that comfortable. Besides, I know many women in California who earn those very same luxuries promised by a man without the help from the stronger sex. These women have taught me we should no longer settle for the low bar of comfort alone, but strive higher for a partnership of equal measure and effort that includes the fair bargain of a grand love.

  Of course, you’ll never entirely paddle alone if you remain unmarried, as you’ll always have your family crowded around. I find myself in a wholly different situation. At times I am discomforted in thinking how I might be bolstered through with a family of my own. How I wish you and Anna and Elisabeth and Abigail were my very own sisters, and admit my jealously now knowing you lean on each other through a life without knowing any less. You must understand, carrying around the burden of your family is just as heavy as the weight I do not carry. Our weights are made of different shapes and sizes, but each constitutes a commensurate burden nonetheless.

  In circling around to my beginnings out west on the American River, I embraced the fabric of a wound, which I’d nearly fooled myself into thinking mended. My journey to the diggings proved a clearing out of sorts, allowing my mind the realization of my mistakes in keeping the company of those who’d held no true regard for my circumstance, and showed little consideration for providing me comfort in exchange for my sacrifice. My sadness doesn’t stem from need but from lack of consideration, which festers as an infection of unworthiness atop my heart. I remain paddling alone, but not as the spinster with which we are both familiar. I dare to imagine a different sort of situation for myself in California, the discovery of which reveals itself as pure joy. In the meantime, I entertain the possibility of the unknown and the unknowing, which both thrill and terrify me. On opposite coasts, we must promise to find worth in ourselves, and to never stop hoping for an expected surprise.

  I congratulate your efforts in finding a womanly life full of meaning and success. It is not by happenstance but your own perseverance that the Boston Theater accepted your play. I think of you in the throes of production and await news of the opening. If not too much to ask, and if time permits, a copy would find itself a welcome home in my hands, even if a poor substitute for you joining me in California. I eagerly await word of your next book and send you love and strength in prospering with joy on your own.

  Your friend, paddling alone down a river of uncertainty, out west,

  EP

  45

  Said my heart to me

  Elisabeth rode out through the wide-open valley of Central California with John Langley toward the Gabilan family rancho. Toward Nemacio and his silly wife, Lily B. Elisabeth was no longer afraid. She was strong enough to face him now.

  “I warn you in advance, John. You’ve no chance with me,” she said, sitting tall atop Burrito.

  He insisted she call him John now, while she didn’t invite him to call her anything but Miss Parker.

  “There’s always a chance,” said John, winking.

  “You can go on flattering all day, but you know I’m not the marrying sort,” she said.

  She’d accepted John’s invitation to the Gabilan Rancho as research for a feature article the Rosenblatts suggested she write about the California Land Act. A legitimate assignment for California Illustrated, not a journey of vengeance, she told herself. After a
ll, her last feature about the new gold mining techniques created quite a stir, earning spectacular returns for the Rosenblatts, selling out eight hundred copies in just under an hour. They reprinted it eight times, shipping it east to New York, Boston, Baltimore, Philadelphia, and St. Louis. New investors and speculators flooded to John Langley’s Pioneer Bank looking to invest in the mines, further driving up the value of all California gold mining stocks across the board. The mines mentioned in Elisabeth’s article gained the highest value, increasing four-fold in the first month alone, including the Porter Mine where the unscrupulous Drew Mack lied about the gold. She’d written about Drew Mack’s “hat sparkling in gold,” as her ethical considerations didn’t quite extend to burying her interests under the foolish man’s inconsistencies. His lying wasn’t her problem. Besides, she nursed an unapologetic blind ambition to boost the value of her own mining interests. She intended to secure her financial future, independent from any man.

  She’d cashed out her Porter Mine shares when they hit a price of $6,000, up $5,500 in value from before the California Illustrated feature issue on mining. The truth about the Porter Mine yielding fool’s gold would come out soon enough, but she felt confident she’d never be blamed since she hadn’t lied, exactly. She’d simply quoted Drew Mack’s words. It wasn’t her lie. Anyhow, she’d only made the one promise to God, not to nip on the drink anymore. She’d never made a promise not to stretch the truth, so she saw no harm in boosting her interests like every other man in this town did.

  John Langley paid her an additional bonus for boosting his own banking interests, suggesting she invest in land for her own security. She agreed, buying three plots in San Francisco straight away. She held off selling her other three remaining mining investments until the shares gained enough value, enough to buy six more plots. She dreamed of owning a whole city block. In the meantime, she’d set herself up comfortable, with a tidy savings in the bank she could rely on, and she’d come by it independent and honest, more or less.

  Elisabeth posted a hundred dollars to Nandy in Culoma with a note saying she hoped to help buy the wood for Andrew’s new room. Then she sent a letter to Samuel on the Wells Fargo Stage with a secured package of a hundred dollars and the mining edition of California Illustrated as a wedding present. Upon graduating from Amherst, he’d gotten engaged to a local woman he’d met at the Methodist church in Amherst and secured a position as a clerk at a dry grocer in Boston. Elisabeth finally wrote how she’d divorced Nate, hoping her honesty wouldn’t cast a pall on Samuel’s new marriage. She’d been revealing drips and dribbles of truth over many letters through the past four years, a thimble at a time, making it easy for him to swallow, but she still found it difficult to explain all the particulars of how the California society allowed more liberal prospects for a woman out on her own. You had to live it firsthand to understand.

  When the Rosenblatts first asked her to write an article about the California land disputes between the Americans and the Californios, she hesitated, saying Jacob might research that topic better.

  “That’s ridiculous,” said Jacob. “You’re the one to write that story. You know the land. The people. Far better than me.”

  She finally agreed, researching in earnest. First she learned all she could about the history of the Spanish in California, how they’d enslaved the Indians to build the missions with the sorry excuse of spreading Christianity. And about the Mexican War of Independence, and the Mexican-American War. Then she interviewed Senator William Gwin about the California Land Act. Senator Gwin said the Californios were irresponsible, with unethical bookkeeping methods. When he started complaining that all the old Californio families held the best sections of land, she interrupted.

  “Do you suggest they give up land they’ve had for generations? To Americans for free?”

  “No. No. For a fee, we’d gladly help the Californio families settle their deeds.”

  She finally understood. The Americans weren’t trying to settle questionable land deeds from historical records but aiming to take away land they’d promised the Californios could keep. Unless the Californios paid off the Americans. Land was second only to gold in California, with everyone scrambling to grab a piece. No wonder Nemacio had been so desperate to find more gold; he had little choice.

  Getting the Californio perspective was crucial for her article in California Illustrated, so she headed out to the Sanchez Ranch on the other side of Telegraph Hill to hear Gabriella’s take. But Gabriella and her children were gone, having sold the Sanchez Ranch to the Murphy family from Iowa. Neighbors said she’d resettled down the peninsula on another rancho she also owned, Rancho La Purísima Concepción.

  So with reluctance she took John up on his offer to visit the Gabilan Ranch. He was right, of course. Seeing the Gabilan Ranch firsthand just made sense. It would add a credible angle to her article. It was research. A necessary sacrifice in the interest of good reporting, she told herself. Besides, she was over Nemacio. Traveling back through the American River basin had cleansed her soul of him. She could handle seeing him again.

  She’d refused John’s offer to ride in one of the four wagons driven by his men loaded full with trunks of supplies for Lily B.: fabric, seeds, nails, boards, books, paper, a mahogany writing desk from Holland, three John Brown Sharps rifles, and several iron reapers. Atop Burrito, she wore a lacy white blouse and a pretty red calico skirt, which she hiked up to her knees. John didn’t say a word about her pantaloons dangling out from underneath, just lifted an eyebrow and laughed hearty as they made their way through the flat valley passing dozens of willow bark Indian dwellings and herds of elk and more bunnies than she could shoot if she’d brought her Hawken.

  They watered their horses at the courtyard fountain of Mission San Juan Bautista, a long white rectangular adobe building capped with red tiles and a tiered campanario with three bells. Pressing on south of the mission, they passed Indians working fields of corn, stacking ears onto wagon beds. The flat valley gave way to undulating foothills of bright yellow grass dotted with clumps of dark green oaks and craggy mountains rising up.

  “Our ranch stretches out from here as far as you can see, in all directions. Up there in the nook of those mountains is the Gabilan Hacienda,” said John, pointing. “My Lily Beth and her man have a heap of trouble on our ranch running off squatters and cattle rustlers stealing heads by the thousands. At fifty thousand acres, it’s quite a load to defend. I’ve an army of men to help protect our interests down there. I tell you, that Land Act is pure theft, with Americans thinking it’s their right to take the land outright, gobbling up whole sections piece by piece.”

  John proved an excellent traveling companion, funny and lighthearted even after hours in the saddle. He told long-winded stories about all manner of subjects that didn’t at all bore her. His pompous banking clients. His fabulous art collection. Interesting books he’d read. And his extravagant social life. Overly solicitous, he asked about her work and travels in the mining region. In between, he attempted to sell her on the idea of becoming his wife. She couldn’t quite tell if his congenial sales pitch was part of his joking manner, or if he really meant it. Either way, she had great fun playing along, and his attentions distracted her from a creeping fear at seeing Nemacio again.

  “We’d make quite a team,” he said.

  “So you’ve said.”

  “Think about it. Seriously! Out adventuring together like this, then taking comfort in my home in the city. It’d be a good life,” he said.

  “I already have a good life.”

  “A gooder life then.”

  “Gooder isn’t a word.”

  “Well, it should be.”

  “See how difficult I am, Mr. Langley? Already correcting your grammar.”

  “You improve me.”

  “Do you flatter all women this way?”

  “Contrary to what you’ve heard, the only other woman in my life is Lily B.”

  “Surely you can find a more suitable w
oman than me. More pliable, perhaps?”

  “I find the pliable ones boring,” he said.

  They traveled into the Gabilans, past cattle and sheep grazing, free. Two red-tailed hawks soared overhead in the bright sunlight, following them up the slope. A group of twenty or so American squatters were setting up a tent camp in the distance.

  “They think they can homestead any old place,” said John, sending out two men to rout them. “We’ve got to educate them about trespassing. Otherwise, they’ll be picking off our herd of cattle by morning.”

  By midday they arrived at a grand white hacienda, over twice the size of Mission San Juan Bautista, at two stories tall with huge clumps of bright red geraniums dangling down from the balcony above. Elisabeth climbed off Burrito and shook out her skirt, taking in a deep breath of courage. The stable boy took their horses and unloaded the wagons. She looked around, marveling at the sprawling ranch and the vegetable garden and rows and rows of fruit trees with white cabbage butterflies flitting among the lemon blossoms. Beyond, she saw vines hanging heavy with grapes and a young boy pushing a drove of fat pigs through dozens of chickens running around. It looked a bounty of magnificence.

  “The gardens are valuable, of course. But the profit’s in the cows. Meat and hides,” said John, leading her up to the long arched veranda.

  A short stout woman came out of a finely carved oak door wearing a white silk dress and a red shawl with fringes. She embraced John, warm, and he introduced her as Doña Maria of the Gabilans, flattering the woman in a Spanish flourish that made the older woman blush. Lily Beth bounced out from behind Doña Maria, glowing precious with her yellow skin flaming with freckles, and curly red hair that she didn’t even bother to pin up but instead wore down, long and wild.

  “The sunshine of my life,” said John, kissing Lily B.

  “Mi amor is out there somewhere, helping the vaqueros,” said Lily B., flinging her hair over her shoulder.