Taking the High Road (3 page)

“I must confess, I am definitely ready to leave this part of the world behind,” Cecelia sighed. “Boston’s heat did not prepare me for a tropical climate.”

Gabe eyed his charge, pale as putty in noonday temperatures, with sympathy. “I know, honey. But it could be worse. Before the railway was built, back a few years ago, we’d’a been usin’ canoes. And things woulda been a lot tougher for all of us. How you doin’, there, Bridge?”

“Good thing I’m tough Irish stock, Uncle Gabe,” she said cheerfully. “This has been a wonderful trip, up to this point. It’s here on that gives me a bit of the shakes.”

Laughing, he sank back into a chair and propped his booted heels upon the deck rail. “Naw, this will be the worst part, trust me on that. Once we head north on the ship that’s waitin’ for us at Panama City, we’ll have a brief layover at Manzanillo, then it’s clear sailin’ up the coast to San Fran.”

“Not so clear once word of Sutter’s Fort got out, though, was it?” Cecelia remembered the stories reported in Boston’s newspapers, how ships loaded with a full contingent arrived in San Francisco Bay only to have every last sailor desert and slink away to the gold fields, how unmanned vessels from Hawaii and other foreign ports were left standing in harbor, to slowly rot away.

“You’re right. That was a crazy, boomin’ time. But it’s mostly settled down now, and we should have no trouble finding us a nice place to rent. Or buy. We’ll also need to find us a good lawyer to handle your shares in Paul’s gold conglomerate.”

“And I can start the school we talked about, Gabe.” A note of excitement tinged Cecelia’s voice. “Certainly I have the experience necessary to teach. And with you and Bridget involved, I think this can be a very successful venture.”

“Yessir.” Shifting position, Gabe reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a cigar. “It’s good to have plans, girls. We got us a good future on the horizon.”

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

“That’s fine, Mrs. Fortin. Then we’ll expect Ruthann bright and early Monday morning.”

“But the cost—” began the woman opposite, in a worried tone. “Much as I want Ruthann to be educated, I just can’t—”

  “No, no, don’t worry about that; as I explained, we have scholarships just waiting to be awarded to deserving students, one of whom is, I have no doubt, this daughter of yours.”

Mother and daughter exchanged unbelieving glances, then slow smiles. Little Ruthann’s missing front tooth gave her a pixie-ish appearance. “You mean, I can really start school here?”

Cecelia returned both smiles with one of her own, wide and all-encompassing. “Absolutely. I think you will make a wonderful addition to my other seven students. It’s all settled, then.” She rose, to indicate that the interview was favorably concluded, and reached out to grasp Mrs. Fortin’s hand. A rough, hard-scrabbled hand, despite the use of black net mitts. “Good day, ladies. Thank you for coming in to meet with me.”

She walked them to the front door and then stood for a minute, watching with satisfaction, as the two Fortins, talking excitedly together, followed a brick path through the whitewashed gate and beyond.

What a wonderful accomplishment, this late afternoon with classes finished for the day. Eight students, ranging in age from seven-year-old Ruthann to twelve-year-old Hannah, were now enrolled at the Powell Academy for Proper Young Ladies. All of enviable intelligence, all from poor working families, all “with a strike against ’em,” according to Gabe, who fiercely championed her goal to find and educate those worthy individuals, preparing them mentally and physically for the world into which they would eventually move.

As she strolled slowly back inside, Cecelia wondered how much her own checkered background, growing up casually loved yet too often passed over for business in a bawdy house, had influenced her unconscious decision to seek out those students who would need her help the most. Ruthann, now, she was the daughter of a widowed mother; her father had been killed last year by an overfilled dray on one of San Francisco’s perpendicular hills. Who was more deserving than this deprived child of an educational fund set up by Gabe and by Cecelia, herself?

“Hello, Cecelia. Ready to leave for the day?”

“Josiah! Why, what a delight to see you here.” She turned from the books needing to be gathered up, and the papers needing to be stacked, to greet the newcomer with obvious enjoyment.

Shrugging, he put aside his black bowler and managed a thin smile. “I haven’t had the pleasure of your company for nearly a week now, my dear. Since we are affianced, I hoped to find that some of the—er—um—barriers to our being together might—ahem—be overturned.”

“I can see why you might expect that,” agreed Cecelia, attempting to soothe what was apparently a wounded ego. “And you would be correct. It’s just that I have been terribly busy, Josiah, with all the work here at my school. As you know, I’m trying to hire another teacher, and I have—”

“Yes, yes,” he interrupted. “Too much to do, and all that. I understand. But Mother doesn’t. In fact, she’s the one who suggested I come here today and pry you free. Catching you all alone is a real—er—boon.”

“Your mother?”

Their betrothal was still so new a thing, so satisfying—if not exactly stimulating—that Cecelia had wanted to keep its announcement private for a while. True, she had agreed to wear the small garnet ring Josiah had slipped onto her finger last week; she had also agreed to attend an engagement party in their honor, hosted by his mother. Bridget, immediately guessing the reason for this piece of jewelry, had sprung a hundred questions on her. Some of which had no answer.

Still, Cecelia had caught herself pondering, over the past few days, if this was what she really wanted. Josiah Kingsley was considered a “catch” in San Franciscan society: well-dressed
(if somewhat foppish)
, well-mannered
(if somewhat priggish),
well-favored
(if somewhat plain-ish).

His bland brown eyes were set rather too close together
(a narrow view on important matters?)
, his mouth had a tight, prim set to it
(ungenerous? uncompassionate?),
and his straight brown hair was already thinning and receding
(vain enough to wear a hat as often as possible?).
For noticing these outer physical flaws, instead of whatever positive traits must surely be tucked inside, Cecelia felt a blush of shame.

Since when had she become so critical of others, so small in charity? How dare she behave in such a petty way toward a man who was probably quite fine, who would give her a good life?

Not to mention the fact that the end of her grace period was fast approaching. To keep the benefits of her father’s partial estate, marriage was a must. Marriage
to whom
might not be such a consideration, under those circumstances.

As if he read her thoughts, Josiah reached out now to clasp her hand in both of his. “We’re alone here, Cecelia,” he unnecessarily reminded her. “I could—you could—we could…”

They could what? Kiss? Then, for Heaven’s sake, why not just do it! Must he ask permission?

By now, thanks to foreign travel and shipboard intrigues, she was experienced enough to have enjoyed the light, quick brush of a man’s lips several times, without any harm being done. Curious, she fluttered her lashes at Josiah, leaned slightly toward him, and silently invited him to partake.

Which he was happy to do.

The result, after a minute or two, was less flash than fizzle. Ugh. Damp. Soft. Squishy. Cecelia drew upright, disappointed. Marriage. Did she want to be married to a man whose kisses left her limp…not with desire, but with distaste?

Josiah seemed quite satisfied, however. He was grinning sappily, like a circus clown, because she had granted him this extraordinary favor. Still beaming, he popped his hat back upon his head and extended his arm to her. “So, my dear, if you’re quite ready to leave, I shall walk you home.”

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * 

For such a large room, it was stuffed with furniture and furbelows, overcrowded and overheated, and dark to the point of inducing claustrophobia. Cecelia, seated carefully in a stiff horsehair chair, tried stretching slightly away from the tight boned neckline of her silk plaid afternoon dress, even while cursing her overactive imagination. What she wouldn’t give to rip open those funeral draperies and thrust up every window pane to good old summer California sun!

“It’s so nice to meet you at last, my dear,” said Mrs. Augusta Kingsley from her position behind a tea tray.

Josiah had at last persuaded her to call upon his mother, in the formidable residence they shared, this lovely Saturday with a breeze blowing in across the Bay. Only just arrived, and already Cecelia was mentally counting the minutes until she could depart.

“You can imagine the shock my wonderful Josiah gave me,” continued the lady, inexorable as a steamship, “when he announced that, out of the blue, he had asked for your hand in marriage. He assured me, however, that you were exactly the woman he wanted for a wife, and that I would agree wholeheartedly with him once you’d come here as my guest.”

Oh, put a tack in it!
she longed to shout. But didn’t, of course. Combine an unbridled tongue with a complete lack of respect, and you had trouble in the brewing. She certainly didn’t want to make an enemy of her future mother-in-law, barely introduced.

“Thank you, Mrs. Kingsley,” said Cecelia meekly, while, to her left, Josiah simpered. His determined pursuit of her was, quite probably, the one and only exploit in which he had ever dared oppose his mother. “Josiah’s very kindness shows in the honor he has done me.”

There. Was that mealy-mouthed enough?

“Indeed it does.” Small and dark, with black hair piled high and the expression of someone forced to suck on a lemon, the woman oozed malcontent. Even, possibly…malevolence. “Now, please, my dear, do tell me a little about yourself. Josiah,” she smiled tenderly at her baby boy, “has given me so few details.”

“Um. Well.” Quickly she sketched in the background of her education in Switzerland, the sudden death of her parents, the transfer west, the settlement in a new land and the beginning of a new lifestyle.

“Yes, Josiah has mentioned the loss you sustained last year, prompting your move west. My sympathies, I’m sure. But you inherited a—well, a rather substantial estate, I’m told?”

Even for this unpleasant person, that was nearly beyond the pale. Cecelia stiffened, shot a look at Josiah that should have crisped his thinning hair—just how and where had he acquired
that
little nugget of information?—and managed a faint reply.

“And you traveled all that way—from Boston, I believe you said—to our lovely city of San Francisco, by yourself? How unutterably brave of you, my dear. I should have been absolutely petrified with fear!”

“No,” said Cecelia between her teeth. “I traveled with my lady’s maid, who is also my dear companion. Along with my guardian and mentor.” Who, sad to say, wasn’t here with her right now. He’d have had this old witch petrified, all right. She would have been shivering in her boots.

“Oh, how reassuring!” Mrs. Kingsley’s right hand flopped limply against her almost nonexistent breast. Probably an almost nonexistent heart palpitated under it. “I must say, I wasn’t quite sure of the propriety involved…and this friend of yours, he—uh—he shares your living quarters?”

God give her strength.
“He does. Or, rather, I share his. Along with my maid, and my housekeeper. As you know, there are more demands for lodging in this city than there are places available. We were lucky to find rooms in a boarding house when we first arrived, until we could locate a builder and design a home. Since Gabe is like a father to me, at the time, it made perfect sense for us to live all in one place.”

“Why, certainly, perfect sense, as you say. But, there, you strike me as quite a capable young lady. And in business, besides?”

Another grit of the teeth. At this rate, she would need to visit a dentist. Soon. “If you can consider teaching a business, Mrs. Kingsley.” She flashed her prettiest smile. “I happen to believe education is extremely important, and I’m willing to do what I can to advance my cause.”

Mrs. Kingsley poured another cup of tea—weak and watery now, with too few leaves used and too many portions taken from it—and sipped daintily from the bone china. “Only to a certain level, I hope you realize.” That was said with unusual firmness. “And to only a select—uh—few—of our population, don’t you agree?”

Despite Josiah’s warning glance, Cecelia said with equal firmness, “No, I don’t agree. It is exactly the disadvantaged who need that education. And I shall do my best to see they have it.”

The older woman demurred. It was her house, after all; her drawing room; her tea. “Very well, if you must continue for now, during the betrothal, I suppose one cannot protest,” she sighed. “However, after you and my dear Josiah are married, that will change. San Francisco society simply will not accept what you are proposing, Miss Powell.”

San Francisco society could jolly well lump it.
Another retort bit back and hastily swallowed. Now, besides a visit to the dentist, she would need to see a physician, as well, for the unaccustomed roiling of her stomach under stress.

“Well, we’ll see.” Another quick look at Josiah that gave notice of some heated conversations in the very near future. He might have prepared her!

“Of course, my dear. Meanwhile, we haven’t even begun to discuss an engagement party for the two of you. Let’s see about a time and a place, shall we? And the invitations—oh, I have such a list of the bon ton to include!”

Josiah, who, up to this point had said barely a word, finally managed a response. “Mother, you seem to be quite excited about such an affair,” he pointed out, noting the faint color that had risen in her sallow cheeks.

She laughed and fluttered like a girl. “Of course I am, Josiah. My goodness, it isn’t every day that a woman is able to introduce her son’s future wife to society, now, is it? Miss Powell, I do hope you will have something made for this event that will be slightly more—um—fashionable that what you have on now?”