The Measure of a Lady (22 page)

But we hope this golden move really is all true, sirs.

Else will Yankee Doodle prove a Yankee doodle doo, sirs.’’

The jovial mood of the men highlighted her sense of desperation and heartache. Returning to the kitchen, she left instructions for Frank and Selma before making her way up the stairs.

————

Rachel’s body ached from spending the night in a chair and from frequent trips up and down the stairs.

With a start, she opened her eyes. She must have dozed off again. Repositioning herself, she once more drank in the sight of her sister. Oh, how she had missed her.

Rachel peered at Lissa more closely. She didn’t look any . . . well,
different
. Didn’t look as if she had been ravished. Or mistreated.

She was a bit pale, of course, but other than that the girl looked well fed and as sweet as ever. Color had come back to her lips, and her eyelids quivered upon occasion.

Rachel had placed cool cloths on her head and bits of ice in her mouth but had yet to receive a response. She tried to prepare herself for what she would say when her sister did wake. Surely the girl would now see the error of her ways. Would be ready to reform.

They could take the next ship home and no one would ever be the wiser. But what would happen if some nice young man wanted to marry Lissa? She would, of course, have to tell him of her past. Wouldn’t she?

And then what? What man would want used goods?

What if she didn’t tell him? What if they left this place and pretended it never happened?

But it had happened. And the girl would be starting off a marriage on a lie.

Lissa stirred. Rachel jumped to her feet.

Her sister opened her eyes, confusion playing across her face.

Oh, thank you, Lord. Thank you
.

‘‘I feel funny,’’ Lissa croaked.

Rachel picked up a cup of broth. ‘‘Here. Have a sip.’’

She supported Lissa’s head, and the girl took a swallow before closing her eyes and falling back into a slumber.

An hour or so later, she fully awoke and drank deeply from the cup.

‘‘Where am I?’’ she asked, settling her head back onto the pillow.

Of a sudden, Rachel realized that Lissa had not been inside the cafe
since its completion. ‘‘This is my room.’’

‘‘Has Merle come?’’

Rachel slowly nodded. He had come, but she had told Frank to refuse him entry.

‘‘Where is he?’’

‘‘I wouldn’t know.’’

‘‘What did he say?’’

‘‘I wouldn’t know.’’ Rachel swallowed at the pain she saw in Lissa’s eyes.

‘‘You sent him away, didn’t you?’’

‘‘I did.’’

Lissa pushed the covers down. ‘‘I need to find Merle.’’

Placing a hand on her shoulder, Rachel pressed her back against the mattress. ‘‘Not yet, Lissa. When you get a little stronger.’’

‘‘Don’t touch me,’’
she hissed. ‘‘I’m leaving. Now. Where is Michael?’’

Rachel clasped her hands together. ‘‘I’m not sure.’’

‘‘Well, find him.’’

Biting her lip, Rachel nodded and left the room.

She sent Frank over to the Parker House to make inquiries, and within moments Michael appeared. She allowed herself to acknowledge that his once boyish features had subtly taken on a more angular appearance, accentuated by his frown. When had that happened?

‘‘She’s awake?’’ he asked.

‘‘Yes, but she won’t talk to me. Only to you.’’

He took the stairs two at a time.

Lissa leaned against the doorframe, her cotton nightdress rumpled, her golden hair disheveled. ‘‘Get me out of here.’’

‘‘What are you doing?’’ he said. ‘‘Get back in that bed.’’

‘‘I can’t stay here, Michael. I’m soiled goods now and must go to live with others of my kind.’’

His face conveyed nothing but compassion. ‘‘You’re not a leper, Lissa. It’s not as if you have some dread disease that requires you to walk through town shouting, ‘Unclean, unclean.’ ’’

She gave him a slight smile and held out her hand. ‘‘Please.’’

He encircled her waist with his arm. ‘‘It’s too soon. I can’t take care of you the way Rachel can. Now, lean on me and let’s get you back in that bed.’’

‘‘I’ll ruin her reputation if I stay here. Besides, women like me aren’t allowed in her Holy of Holies.’’

‘‘Did she tell you that?’’

‘‘She didn’t have to. She has a sign in her window that says it all.’’

Rachel stood at the landing. Michael looked at her, questioning.

She swallowed. ‘‘You are welcome here, Lissa. You will always be welcome here. I will take the sign down.’’

Lissa teared up. ‘‘No, Rache. Don’t do that. I’m not worthy of it.’’

Rachel rushed forward and clasped her sister to her. The coolness of her skin reminded Rachel of Lissa’s fragility. A silver hair ornament scratched Rachel’s cheek. She wondered if it was a gift from Merle. A gift for services rendered.

‘‘Oh, Lissa, let’s get out of this town. Let’s get on a ship and go back home and forget any of this ever happened.’’

Lissa shook her head, sobbing against Rachel’s neck. ‘‘I can’t. I can’t.’’

‘‘Not today, of course. But when you are stronger. I will make the arrangements. I will take care of you. We don’t even have to go to Elizabeth. It could be another town that’s new to us.’’

‘‘No. You don’t understand. I can’t leave him. I love him.’’

Rachel rocked her sister. ‘‘He’s married, dear. You must let him go.’’

‘‘But don’t you see? He doesn’t love her. He loves me.’’

‘‘Shhhh. Come, let’s get you back to bed.’’

‘‘No. I can’t live without him. I won’t live without him. And if I stay here you will not let me see him.’’

‘‘He’s married. And his wife is here, taking her rightful place with him.’’

‘‘No!’’ she screeched and shoved Rachel away. ‘‘He’s mine. She may have possession of his name, but I have possession of his heart.’’

‘‘For how long, Lissa? For how long?’’

‘‘Forever. He swore an oath to me.’’

She reached up to brush a tendril of hair behind Lissa’s ear, but the girl jerked back. Michael grabbed her elbow to keep her from falling.

Sorrow filled Rachel. ‘‘He swore an oath to his wife, as well. His word means nothing.’’

Lissa slapped her. Full across the face, wrenching Rachel’s head to the side. Rachel covered the sting with her hand, stuffing tears of pain and rejection down deep inside.

Michael sucked in his breath. ‘‘Stop it! Both of you.’’

He propped Lissa against the doorframe then disappeared inside Rachel’s room only to return with a blanket.

The sisters faced one another, separated by a moat of regret, disillusionment, and loss.

Michael draped the covering over Lissa’s shoulders.

‘‘I’m taking her with me, Rachel.’’

Rachel stepped back.

He slipped an arm around Lissa, and together they shuffled to the stairs. It was not wide enough for the both of them.

He moved onto the first step. ‘‘Put your hands on my shoulders.’’

She did. Grasping them, he tugged her against his back and squatted down. ‘‘Come on. I’ll piggyback you.’’

‘‘I don’t have the strength to hop on. Just move slowly. I’ll be right behind you.’’

A lump the size of a grapefruit lodged in Rachel’s throat. At the bottom of the stairs, Michael lifted Lissa into his arms. They left without so much as a good-bye.

Rachel went to the front window and peeked out the curtain.

Michael came into view and headed straight for the Parker House.

She watched him disappear inside. A young boy burdened with a fallen sister whose depravities had rendered her so weak she could not even walk.

The tears she had held in check rushed in like a tidal wave. She made her way back up to her room and collapsed onto the bed. It smelled of jasmine. It smelled of Lissa.

Rachel rolled over. In her bid to do what was right, she had lost those she held most dear. She pulled her Bible from the table at her side.

‘‘If anyone does not obey our word in this epistle, note that person and do not keep company with him, that he may be ashamed. Yet do not count him as an enemy, but admonish him as a brother.’’

One by one, she turned the pages of Scripture.

‘‘And why do you look at the speck in your brother’s eye, but do not consider the plank in your own eye?’’

She sighed. One page said to admonish your brother; the other said to look after your own sins.

Which is it, Lord?
she thought.
Do I have a plank in my eye? A plank so big I cannot discern right from wrong when I see it?

She shook her head. Surely sexual immorality was no speck but a plank. Why then did her spirit feel so troubled? So unsure? What was she missing? What could she not distinguish?

Show me my plank, Lord. Please. Will you show me?

chapter
20

I
n the months that followed, Johnnie still brought her insects but no longer came for coffee; Mr. Crocker pressed his attentions; Michael continued to rent a green baize table at the Parker House, accumulating quite a bit of wealth; and Lissa went completely wild.

Her exquisite beauty and untamed course of conduct earned her a widespread reputation. One time she swept through the Plaza in an ornate Turkish costume that shamelessly revealed her tiny delicate feet richly encased in embroidered satin slippers.

Another time she dashed through town dressed to the nines and riding
astride
a glossy lithe-limbed stallion as recklessly as a man. Yet Rachel could not deny the poise with which she held her ribbons and the skill with which she handled her mount.

Rachel wondered where the horse had come from. She’d heard her sister had won thousands racing the animal.

And the last time she saw Lissa, Rachel could not but stare, as captivated as everyone else, when the girl pranced through town atop her dark Thoroughbred. A snug burgundy velvet riding habit with a hundred gold buttons hugged her winsome figure. A magnificent hat of sable plumes perched atop her head and sported a short white lace veil over her face. Her eyes flashed earthy and sensual promises from behind its gossamer screen.

Her musical laugh would ring through the Plaza as if she hadn’t a care in the world, but Rachel recognized the sorrow and despair beneath it.

Mrs. Sumner did her share of pretending, as well, but clearly she did not hold her husband’s love. Though the Sumners lived in the house on Telegraph Hill, word was that Merle had built a lavish manor on the outskirts of town five times the size of his city home. . . . And that Lissa lived there.

Word also had it that Mr. Sumner spent more time at his manor with Lissa than he did at his house with his wife.

Meanwhile, the population of San Francisco continued to explode. In the month of September alone, six thousand passengers from five different continents landed by sea. And another several thousand arrived by land.

The few women among them went to the mines with their husbands. Just in time for the rainy season, for the next two months had offered nothing but rain. Day after day after day.

Frank stomped in the back, scraping the mud from his boots and announcing that more than twelve inches had fallen last night and the streets were a mess.

Rachel wended her way to the front bay window, pushed back the curtain, and watched the water slide down the panes, dividing into tributaries then surging together again. Oh, how she missed the sun.

And the freedom it allowed her.

She hadn’t been anywhere for weeks other than church services at the schoolhouse. Trying to make the trek out to Johnnie’s property was unthinkable.

She attempted to see through the deluge to the Parker House but could not. Still, she could see the crowds of men darting about the Plaza.

Unable to pan for gold in this mess, the miners had migrated to town, only to be preyed upon by the saloons, much like a giant water bug would grab its backboned prey and suck the life juices out of it.

She sighed. November already. Soon it would be Christmas, and she had no family to celebrate it with. No family to exchange gifts with. Michael had not come home since the day he left with Lissa. And Lissa, of course, was forever lost to her.

She let the curtain fall and with shoulders slumped, made her way back to the kitchen to help with the day’s food preparations.

————

Johnnie ambled through his Parker House, weaving his way through the throngs of rowdies congregating around the tables. As the crowds had grown larger, his place of dwelling seemed to grow smaller. What had once been one of the largest public houses on the Plaza no longer had the capacity to hold the masses that congregated at its door.

And with this considerable influx came a boxed-in room so stifled with tobacco smoke, alcohol, unwashed men, and clingy, odiferous mud that Johnnie often found himself slipping out the back just for a breath of air.

But there was no such thing as fresh air in San Francisco. For men covered every square inch of the city—even the alley behind his saloon.

The demeanor of the miners had also changed over the last couple of months as less and less gold was unearthed. The rambunctious, carefree ways of before had been replaced with a miasma of disillusionment and disappointment. Guns and knives appeared on the slightest provocation. Crime escalated in a society that earlier in the year would have left a bag of dust unattended, secure in the knowledge that no one would bother it.

Johnnie examined the rain-soaked, haggard, filthy men, allowing that for the most part they were not ruffians or ne’er-do-wells but honorable husbands, fathers, sons, and uncles. Had they been back home, they most likely would not have dreamed of stepping inside a place such as this.

But they had left their wives and children in order to come to this mecca, expecting to find a fortune in a few short days. Yet the easy gold was gone. Laboring ten hours a day knee deep in freezing water produced only meager rewards, if any.

And now they realized it would take months, maybe even years, to gather up enough gold to justify their journey. Their time away.

Their very existence.

Desperation and despair had begun to sink in, reinforced by the discovery they could do nothing but sit until the rainy season had passed.

So they came to town, hoping to make on a turn of a card what a thousand hours of panning might produce. Then they could go home a hero. A debt-free man. A man who didn’t rely on the charity of his in-laws or the whims of a mortgage holder.

More often than not, though, between the gambling and the women, the miners lost the little they had accumulated and found themselves wondering how they were going to survive the winter.

The rain pounded on Johnnie’s iron gambling den like small shot.

Oh, but he rued the day he had ordered this blasted thing. It was too hot during the day, cooled too quickly at night, and offered no warmth in the morning. Its anticorrosive paint emitted a sickening smell in the heat that never completely went away. And when it rained, the sound of each drop magnified itself exponentially.

Maybe he should line the whole thing with wood. But, then, he may as well build a wooden structure and leave off the iron.

He sighed. He’d had this argument with himself many a time.

And each time he came to the same conclusion. He was stuck with an iron mansion that he loathed but had invested too much in to tear down.

A crowd began to form around Michael’s table, and Johnnie slowed to watch.

‘‘Walk up, chaps,’’ Michael called. ‘‘Pungle her down and bet what you please. If anyone goes broke, I’ll give him money for a big drink of Parker’s finest Monongahela whiskey.’’

Men plunked down their bags and play began. The boy had a flair for dealing and a persuasive call.

Johnnie had encouraged him to return home, but Michael held no regrets about bidding ‘‘toting, scrubbing, and a bossy sister’’ goodbye. He wanted to make his fortune. Just like Johnnie.

So Johnnie had let him stay. Mainly so he could keep an eye on the boy for Rachel. But he disliked the responsibility of being anyone’s idol. He was not something a young impressionable boy should strive to become.

The miners stacked up like cards against Michael’s table, exhibiting a degree of conformity that had been forced upon them by the town’s limited offerings. High boots, heavy trousers, flannel shirts, suspenders, and slouch hats made up their uniform as surely as if it had been mandatory issue.

And the men embraced their anonymity, enhancing it with beards so heavy even relations were unrecognizable. Johnnie studied the look-alike bunch. The anonymity was one of the main currents his business depended on, for with this loss of identity came a loss of inhibition, allowing doctors, lawyers, preachers, bankers, and teachers to stray from the straight and narrow.

A fierce-looking man with an untrimmed beard and hair that appeared as if it had been cut with a jackknife turned up an eight, placing his winnings of the last few minutes at almost twenty-thousand dollars. His worn, tattered clothing sported patches covered with more patches.

Michael showed no sign of concern or distress—only casual indifference. Johnnie knew, though, only too well, the tightness that surely had a firm hold on the lad’s innards.

Walk away,
Johnnie silently urged the miner.
Pick up your winnings and go home to your wife in Boston or Philadelphia or New Orleans or wherever it is you hail from. It would be best for you and best for the boy here
.

But the man continued to bet, winning a little here, losing much more there. In less than thirty minutes he’d lost it all.

As promised, Michael sifted out enough gold for the man to purchase a whiskey.

A great unease swept through Johnnie. The man looked near collapse. It appeared he had not come with a friend or partner, but alone. Johnnie watched him make his way to the bar. Past the other tables, past the piano player, past his Lorenzo Bartolini, which today wore a feathered Indian headdress.

The man collected his drink, threw it down with a toss of his head, and walked out the door.

Within seconds the report of a firearm sounded. Johnnie shoved his way through the crowd, threw open the door and there, on his porch, lay the man. Dead. Resting in a pool of his own blood.

————

After weeks of violent rain, the morning dawned without a cloud in the sky. Rachel tied back the curtains, drinking in the canvas of blue propped behind hills of pale green.

She smiled. Only in California would the hills be brown in the summer and green in the winter.

Not bothering to collect her bonnet, she opened the door and stood on her porch, basking in the mild temperature and the breathtaking panorama. Even the sight of Telegraph Hill did not dampen her sense of elation that rose with the sun.

‘‘Glorious, isn’t it?’’

Rachel turned to find Mr. Crocker, portfolio and all, stepping up onto her platform.

‘‘Indeed it is,’’ she said.

‘‘Can you come out and play?’’

She smiled. ‘‘I’d love to, but I’m afraid the mud is so deep we’d not get very far.’’

‘‘Then perhaps I could come in?’’

‘‘Of course.’’

They entered the dining room and he spread out his paintings while she collected some coffee.

After they combed through the most recent additions to his library of artwork, Crocker put them away and drew forth two brown packages. One large and flat, the other small and rectangular.

‘‘For you,’’ he said.

She didn’t move.

He untied the twine securing the large package and opened its wrappings to reveal a stack of drawing paper. He then made short work of the small box, which yielded two slender pieces of charcoal.

‘‘I’m going to teach you how to make sketches of your insects.’’

She dared not touch the paper or she’d be lost. ‘‘ ’Twould be an exercise in futility, I’m afraid.’’

‘‘I’m a marvelous teacher.’’ The tenor of his voice had dropped to an intimate register.

She raised her gaze and found his look intense and disquieting. Brown eyes. Same as his hair. Funny, she’d never noticed his eyes before.

‘‘I’m sorry,’’ she said. ‘‘Though your gift is perfectly appropriate, I have decided that as a woman on my own, it is not wise to accept a gift from a man. Any man.’’

Except for Johnnie,
she thought.
But he’s different
.

Mr. Crocker swallowed. ‘‘Would you be more apt to take it if you were my betrothed?’’

The sounds of industry and morning salutations from out in the Plaza reached her ears but not her mind. Only confusion and distress and near panic over his declaration broke through her intellect.

Oh no. Oh no. Oh no
.

‘‘Rachel?’’ he whispered. ‘‘Would you be my wife?’’

The sound of her forename rattled like a bell clanger in her head, almost drowning out his proposal. Almost. ‘‘Mr. Crocker, I, um, I don’t know what to say.’’

He gripped his knees. ‘‘Please, call me Henry. And if you would like some time, that would be—’’

‘‘Unnecessary,’’ Johnnie said from the kitchen entryway.

The two of them jumped guiltily to their feet.

‘‘Parker!’’

‘‘Johnnie!’’

He moved into the room, his attention fixed on Rachel.

Blindly reaching for the table, she found its top and moved to stand behind it. ‘‘I wasn’t expecting you,’’ she said.

‘‘So I see.’’

‘‘You’ve not been over for coffee in weeks.’’

‘‘My mistake.’’

Henry frowned. ‘‘Miss Van Buren? Have I spoken out of turn? Do you and Parker have an understanding?’’

She gave her full attention to Mr. Crocker. ‘‘I have not been spoken for, no.’’

‘‘Not officially,’’ Johnnie said.

‘‘Not at all,’’ she spat back.

‘‘Do you love him, Rachel?’’ Johnnie asked.

‘‘Parker,’’ Crocker interrupted, ‘‘I must protest.’’

‘‘He makes his living in the out-of-doors,’’ she answered.

‘‘That’s not what I asked.’’

‘‘He’s easy to get along with.’’

‘‘So is a pet.’’

‘‘He’s respectable.’’

‘‘I take that to mean he hasn’t kissed you?’’

‘‘Parker!’’ Crocker exclaimed.

‘‘He has not.’’

Tension fell from Johnnie’s shoulders. ‘‘Do you love him?’’

‘‘That’s none of your affair.’’

‘‘Do you love me?’’ Johnnie stood close now. Just on the other side of the table, looking tousled and tired. She wondered if he’d been ill.

‘‘A marriage cannot be based only on feelings,’’ she said. ‘‘Feelings come and go. A marriage must be based on a solid foundation of trust and respect and . . .’’

‘‘Love,’’ he supplied. ‘‘You didn’t answer my question.’’

‘‘You have come at a most inconvenient time, Johnnie.’’

‘‘Answer me.’’

‘‘The answer makes no difference.’’