The Measure of a Lady (21 page)

‘‘Where have you been?’’ he repeated.

‘‘It’s none of your business.’’

‘‘Do not toy with me, Rachel. I went out to my property and you weren’t there. Were you with Crocker?’’

‘‘It’s none of your business.’’

He slammed both hands onto the table and leaned toward her. ‘‘You are the woman I am going to marry. I’d say that makes it my business.’’

She rubbed her forehead. ‘‘My word, but you are stubborn, and I am too tired to argue with you.’’

‘‘Good. Then get your things and let’s go see the preacher.’’

She rolled her eyes. ‘‘You told me you would send Michael home.’’

‘‘I tried.’’

‘‘Not very hard, obviously.’’

Johnnie frowned. ‘‘He said if I took away his table he’d go rent one from Ralph at the Dorado. I figured letting him stay at my place was the lesser of two evils.’’

‘‘Two wrongs don’t make a right.’’

He stepped over the bench and sat down. ‘‘There’s been a lot of talk about those women who came here yesterday. Talk that kicking them out was sort of harsh.’’

‘‘I didn’t know what else to do.’’

‘‘They are still people, Rachel. With feelings.’’

‘‘You dare to lecture me?’’

‘‘I’m not lecturing.’’ He drove his fingers through his hair. ‘‘I’m trying to help.’’

‘‘They came to solicit business.’’

‘‘How do you know? Maybe they just wanted a sweet.’’

‘‘Then they’ll have to make their own.’’

Her front door opened. A sunbonnet woman stepped in. Her travel dress of dark homespun wool had a high neckline and an unboned bodice that buttoned up the front.

Johnnie and Rachel both stood.

‘‘Please forgive me,’’ the woman said. ‘‘I saw that you were closed, but the only places open were, well . . . My husband was supposed to meet me at the docks, but our ship arrived several days late and I don’t know how to find him.’’

A woman. A real live respectable woman. Rachel moved toward her and clasped her hands. ‘‘Oh, hello. And don’t worry about a thing. Why, Mr. Parker here knows most everyone in town. I’m ever so glad that you stopped in. Please, would you join us for some refreshment?’’

‘‘Oh no. I can see you’re closed. I wouldn’t want to impose.’’

‘‘It’s no trouble.’’ She glanced at the cup sitting in front of Johnnie. ‘‘There should be some coffee on the warmer. Won’t you be our guest?’’

‘‘Oh, that does sounds lovely.’’

Rachel led her to the table.

‘‘I’ll get it,’’ Johnnie said, picking up his mug and heading to the kitchen.

‘‘The town wasn’t quite what I was expecting,’’ the woman said.

‘‘No, I imagine not.’’

Johnnie entered carrying a tray with three steaming cups and a cool, wet cloth neatly folded on a plate.

‘‘Why, thank you so very much.’’ The woman dabbed her delicate porcelain face and pale hands with the towel, then took a sip of coffee.

Closing her eyes, she allowed her shoulders to relax. ‘‘You have no idea how wonderful this is.’’

Rachel and Johnnie exchanged a smile.

The lady took a few more sips before opening her eyes. They were as green as a grasshopper.

‘‘Goodness,’’ she said. ‘‘How terribly rude of me. I’m so sorry.’’

Rachel shook her head. ‘‘Nonsense. I understand exactly how you feel. You take all the time you want.’’

Still, the woman put her cup down and surveyed the shop. ‘‘A café. How very delightful.’’

‘‘Thank you. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Rachel Van Buren. Proprietress of this restaurant. And this is Mr. Parker. He owns the Parker House on the corner.’’

‘‘How do you do? I’m Mrs. Merle Sumner.’’

‘‘Merle Sumner?
Merle
Sumner?’’ Rachel grabbed the edge of the table, slowly coming to her feet. ‘‘You are
wed
to Merle Sumner?’’

A brief look of resignation and grief flashed across Mrs. Sumner’s face before she carefully smoothed it of all expression. ‘‘I am and have been for two years. Do you know him?’’

‘‘Sweet merciful heavens.’’ Rachel looked to Johnnie, telegraphing him a silent message.
What do we do?

‘‘Perhaps if you would just point me in the right direction, I will be on my way,’’ Mrs. Sumner said, standing.

‘‘He knew you were coming?’’ Johnnie asked.

‘‘Of course.’’

‘‘I would be happy to escort you to his home.’’

‘‘No, thank you. I’d prefer to do this alone.’’

He nodded, walked her to the door, and gave her directions to the little house on the hill. Rachel sank onto the bench, wrapping her arms tightly against her waist.

She heard the door click shut, the bolt slide into place. Johnnie sat next to her, his back to the table, and placed his elbows on his knees.

‘‘He’s married,’’ she said. ‘‘Married! How could that be? He promised Lissa he would marry her, knowing full well the entire time that he could not. Oh, Johnnie. What will Lissa do? What will happen to her?’’

Her heart began to race. Her stomach soured. She dug her nails into her sides. ‘‘What a heartless, unconscionable scoundrel. What are we to do?’’

‘‘I will see to it.’’

‘‘How? How will you see to it? The man is
married
. What can you or I possibly do now?’’

He swiped his mouth. ‘‘I can at least be there to catch her when he throws her out, or when his wife does. I will have her home before the day is done.’’

He started to stand and she grabbed his hand. He settled back down.

‘‘She’s my sister. I will go.’’

‘‘No. This is going to be devastating enough for Lissa without her having to suffer her humiliation in front of you. Don’t do that to her.’’

‘‘Then Michael. Michael must go. He said he was meeting some friends this afternoon.’’

‘‘I’ll find him.’’

As soon as he left she allowed her show of bravado to crumble and fell to her knees.
O Lord. O Lord. You must do something. Please
.

chapter
19

T
he sun had long since disappeared when Michael slogged in the back door, weary, wind burned, and wearing half the dust of California. He flopped into a chair and using his toes, pushed off one boot, then the other. They fell with a
thunk-thunk
onto the plank floor.

‘‘Where’s Lissa?’’ Rachel asked.

Michael didn’t answer. Instead, he propped an ankle on his knee and began to massage his foot. A musty, closed-in smell drifted to Rachel’s nose.

‘‘What is it, Michael? What’s happened?’’

‘‘She won’t come home.’’

‘‘You can’t mean to tell me she’s still at Mr. Sumner’s?’’

‘‘No. She’s definitely not at Sumner’s.’’ He switched positions, working the soles of his other foot.

‘‘Is she all right?’’

‘‘She’s pretty torn up. Wailing and crying and carrying on.’’

Rachel set her elbows on the table, leaning her mouth into her fists. ‘‘Where is she?’’

‘‘I’ve rented a room at the Parker House and have her there for now.’’

‘‘Why won’t she come home?’’

He stilled and looked over at her, a flare of resentment flashing in his eyes. ‘‘She says there’s a sign in your window that warns her kind away.’’

Rachel sucked in her breath. ‘‘I wasn’t referring to her.’’

‘‘Weren’t you?’’ He picked up his boots and stood. ‘‘Listen, I don’t like her being all by herself. She’s awfully upset. I’m gonna stay with her.’’

Rachel slowly lowered her hands. ‘‘For tonight?’’

‘‘Well, I was thinking I’d go ahead and move in over there.’’

She rose to her feet. ‘‘Temporarily.’’

He toyed with his boots. ‘‘Permanently.’’

An ache pressed against her chest, making it hard to breathe. ‘‘What if I take the sign down?’’

He swiped a hand under his nose. ‘‘She said the sign would have to be removed and you’d have to serve those women who you kicked out that time along with any of the others that come in.’’

‘‘I can’t do that, Michael. You know I can’t.’’

Pinning his gaze to hers, he frowned. ‘‘I don’t know that at all.’’

‘‘Michael, please. I’m trying so hard to do what’s right. If I were to compromise my standards, what kind of witness would I be?’’

‘‘What kind of witness throws out sinners?’’

‘‘Unrepentant sinners.’’

‘‘This whole town is nothing but unrepentant sinners.’’ He shook his head. ‘‘No, I’m leaving, Rache. I won’t be living here and I won’t be working here. This place has gotten itself a stench worse than any gambling hall in the whole of San Francisco.’’

————

‘‘Miss Rachel? Everything all right in there?’’

Rachel squinted against the sun shooting through her window. Her entire body hurt—legs, arms, shoulders, back, neck, everything. She straightened, shoving the covers to the bottom of the bed, and groaned.

The knock came again, more insistent this time.

‘‘Miss Rachel?’’

She opened her mouth, but tears collected again and clogged her throat, making her answer an undecipherable jumble.

The door squeaked on its hinges.

Selma stepped in and over to the bed. She laid a hand against Rachel’s forehead. ‘‘You sick?’’

Rachel shook her head, tears spilling from her eyes.

‘‘Mr. Johnnie’s beside himself with worry. I swear that man has been here every fifteen minutes since early this morning.’’

Rachel pushed herself up and swung her legs to the floor. ‘‘I’ll be fine,’’ she whispered.

‘‘You just take all the time you want. I wouldn’t have disturbed ya, but Mr. Johnnie made me come up and check. Wouldn’t leave until I did. He’s waiting down there right now for a report.’’

‘‘What time is it?’’

‘‘It’s only nine. Still early enough.’’

Rachel ran a hand beneath her eyes. ‘‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sleep so long. I’ll be right down to help with lunch.’’

‘‘No need. Frankie and I have it under control.’’

She shook her head. ‘‘We’ll be shorthanded as it is without Michael. Just give me a minute.’’

‘‘What do you want me to tell Mr. Johnnie?’’

She swallowed. ‘‘That I’m fine. I’m . . . fine.’’

Selma tilted her head. ‘‘You don’t look fine to me.’’ She pulled a handkerchief from her apron pocket and handed it to Rachel.

‘‘Thank you.’’ She dabbed her eyes and cheeks. ‘‘Selma, do you think it’s wrong to exclude women of ill repute from my restaurant?’’

Selma looked away, considering. ‘‘I wouldn’t know. I can surely see why you do. I can’t help but feel for ’em, though. Not too many of ’em are happy with their lives. Ain’t nothin’ they’d like better than to walk away and start over.’’

‘‘Then why don’t they?’’

‘‘Oh, it’s not all that easy, I reckon, when you think about it. They’re alone. With no respectability. No money. No place in society. Ain’t too many choices open for ’em, really.’’

Rachel rubbed the handkerchief in her hands. ‘‘Well, what do they expect? To play the harlot and then walk away unscathed and play the lady?’’

‘‘Ain’t nobody can live a life like that and walk away unscathed.

The question is, if they walk away, where would they go?’’

‘‘Home. To their family.’’

‘‘Maybe the lucky ones. If they have family. And if their family would take them back. But just ’cause their family takes ’em in doesn’t mean society will. And what about those that have no families? Or families who’ve disowned them? What then?’’

‘‘So you think I should allow them in the restaurant?’’

‘‘Let me ask you this. If one of ’em walked away from a life of sin, would you accept them like you would some lady who had never crossed the line?’’

‘‘You mean like Lissa?’’

‘‘I mean like anybody.’’

‘‘I don’t know. I’ve been taught my whole life there is no going back. But now, with Lissa, I’m not so sure.’’ She moistened her lips.

‘‘For now, though, I’m referring to those who are still, uh, practicing their profession. Lissa wants me to serve them. What do you think?

If it was your restaurant, would you serve them?’’

Selma sighed. ‘‘That there’s the rub, Miss Rachel. It ain’t my café.

It’s yours. Which means it makes no nevermind what I would do.

Only what you would do.’’

————

Rachel finished off the sixth square she’d knitted that hour. It was just large enough to hold one dumpling, whose appearance would be very pretty when boiled in the coarse cotton.

Frank hauled in wood for the stove and Selma stirred meat into a pot. The two worked silently, only speaking in muted tones when absolutely necessary, and then only to each other.

The back door banged open. All three of them jumped.

A pale and limp Lissa lay draped across Johnnie’s arms. ‘‘Where do you want her?’’

Rachel lurched to her feet. ‘‘What happened?’’

‘‘She swallowed a powerful narcotic. She needs a doctor and somebody to watch over her.’’

He made his way to the stairs. ‘‘Which room? Yours or Michael’s?’’ he asked over his shoulder.

Rachel scrambled after him. ‘‘Put her in my room for now. It’s to the right.’’

He waited while she opened her door, then preceded her in, gently laying Lissa on top of the cot. Rachel grabbed a buttonhook then began to release the buttons on Lissa’s boots.

Johnnie bolstered up her head with a pillow. Her face held no color, not even her lips.

‘‘Is she breathing?’’

‘‘Yes.’’ But he placed a hand beneath her nose, checking again for air.

‘‘What happened?’’ Rachel whispered.

‘‘I’m not completely sure. I do know that Sumner really does seem to have a deep affection for her. Never have I seen him as happy as he’s been since she agreed to be his . . .’’

Swallowing, Rachel slipped one boot off. ‘‘But what actually happened when Mrs. Sumner arrived?’’

‘‘I don’t know. Michael insisted on going up to the cottage alone. He didn’t say anything to you?’’

‘‘Not about that.’’

‘‘Well, Mrs. Sumner has taken up residence with her husband. That’s about all I know.’’ Johnnie felt Lissa’s forehead. ‘‘I sent Michael to find a doctor. Do you have a cool cloth or something?’’

Rachel scurried down to the kitchen and back. Folding the cloth in half, then in half again, she laid it across Lissa’s forehead. The girl didn’t so much as budge.

Rachel touched the back of her hand to her sister’s cheek. Her skin felt clammy. ‘‘How do you know she swallowed something?’’

‘‘The empty vial beside her bed.’’ He reached into his pocket and put a tiny corked bottle on Rachel’s bed stand. ‘‘Be sure to show this to the doc when he arrives.’’

Rachel placed a hand over her mouth. ‘‘Will she be all right?’’

He looked at her. ‘‘I don’t know.’’

‘‘You found her?’’

‘‘No. Michael.’’

‘‘Oh, Johnnie. How awful for a young boy to have to see such a thing.’’

‘‘He’s a man now, Rachel. It’s time he learned his way.’’

‘‘He’s fourteen.’’

‘‘In this territory, that’s a man and then some.’’

She fisted her hands. ‘‘Oh, how I hate this place.’’

He averted his gaze, surveying the items on her bed stand and toilet table. The collection of dried insects resting atop the covered bench snagged his attention.

Taking a closer look, he ran his finger along the perimeter of one board. ‘‘Well,’’ he said, ‘‘would you look at this?’’

A disturbance downstairs indicated the arrival of the doctor.

Johnnie took a deep breath and moved toward the door. ‘‘I’ll send him on up and then I guess I’ll be going.’’ He hesitated. ‘‘Rachel?’’

She looked up, meeting his troubled expression.

‘‘I love you.’’ Then he disappeared.

Rachel had expected someone Papa’s age. The young man before her was old enough to grow facial hair, but it looked misplaced on him. Like a schoolboy pasting on a moustache for the school play.

And what a moustache it was. Black and shaped like an A, its eaves hung a good two inches beyond his face.

He removed his hat. ‘‘I’m Dr. Chadworth.’’

‘‘How do you do. I’m Rachel Van Buren and this is my sister, Lissa.’’

‘‘Your sister?’’ His gaze darted between them. ‘‘I, uh, I hadn’t realized.’’

She suppressed the bit of defensiveness flaring to life at his implied censure.

She handed him the vial. ‘‘Michael thinks she drank something harmful.’’

He uncorked it and ran it under his nose the way she’d seen some of Papa’s friends do when judging the quality of a wine. She wondered how any fumes could possibly get past that moustache.

He set a worn leather bag on the bench and moved to her bowl and ewer. ‘‘May I?’’

She lifted her brows. ‘‘Of course.’’

The next several minutes soothed Rachel’s doubts as the man finished washing up and went about examining his patient. He pressed his fingers against Lissa’s wrist, checked her eyes, listened to her heartbeat, and looked all around her lips, tongue, and mouth.

After each step he would ‘‘hmmm’’ to himself as if making some evaluation within his mind about her condition. Finally he returned to his bag and withdrew a small bottle of black liquid.

‘‘What’s that?’’

‘‘Something to absorb the poison. It may or may not work. Only time will tell. Now, if you please, Miss Van Buren, I’m going to have to ask you to step outside.’’

‘‘Why? Will it hurt her?’’

‘‘No, no.’’

‘‘How will you get her to swallow it?’’

‘‘Never fear, Miss Van Buren. Now, please, we haven’t a moment to lose.’’ He cupped her elbow, steered her into the hall, and left her facing a closed door.

She paced. She sat on the top stair. She prayed. And still the doctor did not come out.

The noon bell rang. Good heavens. She rushed down the stairs, but Frank, Selma, and Michael had all under control.

Michael. He was here. At work. Right where he belonged.

The next half hour kept her busy filling cups and shuffling platters. She had just picked up another pot of coffee when the doctor entered the kitchen.

Michael came in from the scullery and stopped. Frank set down some dirty platters, and Selma paused in the spooning of pureed raspberries onto some tarts.

The doctor zeroed in on the girl. ‘‘Hello, Selma. It’s, uh, good to see you.’’

‘‘Her name is Mrs. Johnson,’’ Frank growled.

Red filled the doctor’s face. Selma returned her attention to the raspberries.

Rachel frowned. ‘‘Would you care for some refreshment, Dr.

Chadworth?’’

‘‘I would appreciate that very much. Thank you.’’

He took a chair at the pastry table, making no effort to hide his regard for Selma. She ignored him completely.

‘‘How is Lissa?’’ Rachel set a cup of brew in front of him.

He took a sip. ‘‘Well, I managed to get a good deal of activated charcoal down her. Lord willing, she’ll wake up soon.’’

‘‘Charcoal? You fed her charcoal?’’

‘‘Activated carbon, actually. It has strong absorption qualities.

Why, a professor at the French Academy of Medicine drank a lethal dose of strychnine in front of his colleagues and lived to tell the tale because it had been mixed with the carbon black.’’

‘‘I see. Will she suffer any ill effects from this carbon?’’

‘‘She shouldn’t.’’

‘‘What about from the elixir?’’

‘‘Depends on how much she ingested, but it’s my guess she’ll awake soon enough.’’

Standing, he thanked Rachel for the coffee, tipped his hat at Selma, and left through the back door. Rachel stepped out with him to make payment for his services.

In the dining room a harmonica took up the tune of ‘‘Yankee Doodle,’’ and her customers serenaded the place, their unique version of the song coming through the windows loud and clear.

‘‘California’s precious earth turns the new world frantic:

Sell your traps and take a berth across the wild Atlantic.

Every one who digs and delves, all whose arms are brawny, Take a pick and help yourselves—off to Californy.

‘‘How this flush of gold will end, we have statements ample; Perhaps a few sacks they will send, only for a sample.