The Measure of a Lady (25 page)

She didn’t ask how he was, but Frank told her he no longer ran the Parker House or the City Hotel. She didn’t ask where he was living, but Frank told her he was still staying in the cabin behind the hotel. She didn’t ask how Frank acquired the tree, and he didn’t offer the information.

The three of them spent the morning making impromptu decorations. Frank strung a bowl of cranberries. Selma wrote Bible verses on small bits of paper in a lovely script. And Rachel made sachets of cinnamon, cloves, and ginger.

Between those and the ribbons from her sewing basket, they were running out of branches to adorn.

Frank plopped into a chair. ‘‘This tree trimming is a lot of work.’’

‘‘Then play us something, Frankie, while you take a rest,’’ Selma said, spearing one of her verses onto a tree limb.

To Rachel’s surprise, Frank pulled a harmonica from his pouch and began to play a medley of Christmas carols. Selma sang along, her voice clear and true. It was a side of the cousins Rachel had never seen.

When Frank began to play ‘‘The Cherry Carol,’’ Selma grabbed her skirts and sashayed about the room singing each verse by heart.

Rachel kept time for her by clapping to the beat.

‘‘Joseph was an old man and an old man was he, And he married Mary Queen of Galilee.

When Joseph was married and his cousin Mary got, Mary proved big with child, by whom Joseph knew not.’’

The front door banged open. Selma yelped. Frank cut off in mid-note. Rachel whirled around.

On the threshold stood Lissa in an elegant claret-colored walking dress of cashmere. The ermine trimming its high collar matched the rich muff encasing her hands. A single-plumed hat sat at an angle upon her head.

Rachel’s heart began to hammer.

Leaving the door open, Lissa stepped inside, taking in the tree and the occupants of the room. ‘‘Well, isn’t this a festive little scene.’’

Slipping one hand out of her muff, she pressed down on her skirt, causing it to bell out in the back a bit as she negotiated her way around the fir and over to the front corner of the room.

She snatched the ‘‘No Prostitutes’’ sign from the window and held it up as if she were the teacher and the three of them were her pupils. ‘‘This says you do not allow prostitutes.’’

A tightness formed across Rachel’s chest. ‘‘That is correct.’’

Outside, Michael ran by the window, grabbed the doorframe, and swung himself into the shop. ‘‘Lissa!’’ he cried. ‘‘Don’t!’’

She strode directly to Rachel. ‘‘I’m tired of every yokel in this town laughing at you behind his hand, including these fine
employees
of yours.’’

Michael grabbed Lissa’s arm. She yanked free of him and slammed the sign down on the table beside her sister.

‘‘If you do not allow prostitutes, Rachel, then you’ll need to find someone else to work for you. Because even though Selma is no longer plying her trade, you know what they say: once a whore, always a whore.’’

Rachel sucked in her breath.

‘‘Furthermore, it might interest you to know that you pay rent to the very woman you threw out earlier this year. She runs a brothel on Dupont Street, and had she been the vindictive type, she could have thrown
you
out on your ear.’’

Lissa spun around and left the shop as suddenly as she had entered it.

No one said a word. No rebuttal. No excuses. No denial.

Yet, clearly, everyone in the room knew. Except for her.

Michael took a tentative step forward. ‘‘She’s just upset, Rachel.

It’s two days before Christmas and Sumner is making merry with his wife. Lissa thought he was going to spend this time with her. You saw her. She was all dressed up and everything.’’

Rachel didn’t know what to do, who to look at, what to think. So she left. She simply wended her way around the table, through the kitchen, up the stairs, and into her room.

She didn’t cry. Didn’t wail. Didn’t anything.

Curling up into a ball on her bed, she closed her eyes.

Please, Lord, please. I want to fall asleep. Then we’ll talk. Please?

Michael moved to the front door and carefully closed it. ‘‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think Lissa would really go through with it.’’

‘‘It’s all right,’’ Frank said. ‘‘There was nothing you could do.’’

Michael looked at Selma. She didn’t look young and pretty like she usually did, but old and tired.

In a way, he was relieved the story had finally come out. He’d known, of course. Known since Rachel had hired her.

And so did everyone in town. Word was that Selma had been a music teacher when she and Frank left Texas to come west, that she had been a girl full of zest and adventure. Upon their arrival, Frank had found her a job as a governess for some wealthy Spanish family, then tried his luck at the mines.

But Selma had gotten tired of waiting and had come down to San Francisco looking for something better to do. The El Dorado had offered her forty dollars a night if she would sit at a lansquenet table and deal cards.

Michael had heard a bonnet was to start work there, so he’d made a point of being at the Dorado her first day. Selma had entered the den, her steps slow, her gaze touching the paintings that lined the walls. Before she could even find her table, she’d fainted.

The man behind the bar told Michael that Selma had been taken to her hotel and left there but that the owner had checked up on her the next morning and doubled his offer. She’d accepted.

Night after night, he’d watched Selma resist the pressure the men had constantly applied. But the longer she worked, the more relaxed she seemed to be. With the paintings. With the men. With the offers being cast her way. Until one day, she started dealing out more than just cards.

The night Frank returned to town, he stormed into the Dorado like a bull ready for a fight and dragged Selma out. That was about the same time Rachel had opened her café.

Michael ran a finger inside the collar of his shirt. Didn’t seem to matter too much what the fellas did around here, but the women were different. Everybody knew who they were. And exactly what they did.

Selma lifted a tear-filled gaze to him. ‘‘I’m so sorry. This will cause more trouble between you. I . . .’’

‘‘It’ll be fine,’’ he replied. ‘‘She knows you. It’ll be different.’’

‘‘She knows her sister, too.’’

He had no reply for that.

Selma began to collect the leavings of their decorating. ‘‘I’ll just clean up here and then . . . go.’’

‘‘She needs you, Selma,’’ Michael said. ‘‘The shop opens in a couple of hours. She can’t run it without you. Please don’t go.’’

Selma placed ribbons onto a tray.

Michael glanced at Frank, but the man said nothing.

‘‘I’m going to check on Rachel,’’ Michael said, ‘‘then I’ll get back with you.’’

Upon reaching her door, he eased it open. Rachel lay on the bed, knees drawn up to her chin.

He stood in indecision, wondering if he should go to her. And if he did, what he would say. In the end, she took the decision from him by looking back over her shoulder.

‘‘You all right?’’ he asked.

‘‘I was going to rest for a little while before I opened.’’

Stepping into the room, he closed the door behind him. ‘‘Selma is leaving.’’

She swallowed and nodded.

‘‘Are you going to let her go?’’

‘‘I don’t see what choice I have.’’

He sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘‘She’s given up her old ways.

You gonna force her back to them by taking away her job?’’

‘‘Oh, Michael. I’m so confused. I like her so much. I do, but how can I keep her on?’’

‘‘It isn’t like she works for you and then does, you know, after hours.’’

‘‘How can you be so sure?’’

‘‘I’d have heard.’’

She laid an arm over her eyes. ‘‘I cannot believe this is even happening. Why didn’t you tell me?’’

He stayed silent.

Moving her arm, she looked at him. ‘‘Is that why she refuses to work the front room?’’

He studied his nails.

‘‘Did you know that woman owned this building?’’

‘‘Yes,’’ he sighed.

Rolling over, she placed her back to him. ‘‘Put up the closed sign.

I won’t be serving lunch today.’’

chapter
23

T
he donkey slipped, nearly tossing Johnnie off and into the infernal mud it waded through. Cursing, he shortened the reins, keeping the jackass under tight control.

The town was nothing but one big quagmire. No telling how many bodies they would exhume from this mess come spring. Men who had become drunk, lost their footing, and sunk into the goop with no one the wiser.

Slowing his pace, he eventually allowed his mind to wander. Michael had told him all that had transpired yesterday. Johnnie hurt for Rachel. For Lissa. For Selma.

He wondered what Rachel would do now that she’d discovered her landlady was a prostitute. A prostitute who had let out the place for a sum well below market value.

Johnnie wondered why the woman had done it. But couldn’t begin to guess her motives.

Not able to sleep, he’d retreated to his property in the wee hours of the morning. He missed Rachel with an intensity that was palpable, and the land made him feel closer to her somehow.

Over this last month he had spent hours there trying to direct the flow of water. Trying to nurture the trees. Trying to restore his relationship with God.

The peace he had gained this morning, however, evaporated along with the night as dawn brushed the sky and mud suctioned the strength from his donkey. What a way to start Christmas Eve.

A spark on the horizon caused him to yank his animal to a halt.

An instant later, a huge flame spiraled up from the center of town.

Dread and fear clamped his chest like the jaws of a vise. Even with the recent rains, San Francisco was nothing but wood and cloth kindling. And it had caught fire, with not one single engine to its name.

It took every bit of self-control he had not to slam his heels into the sides of the donkey. He knew that would only delay him. The mud was close to three feet deep here, and there would be no hurrying through it.

He urged the animal on, speaking to it with a calmness he didn’t feel. Shouts of alarm drifted up to him, and he gleaned a bit of comfort from them. If he could hear them, Rachel could hear them.

What would she do? Where would she go?

Black smoke billowed up from the fire as it gained momentum.

If it wasn’t the actual Plaza that had caught, it was awfully close.

The smell of burnt wood tickled his nose, though there was no wind to speak of. Or rain—now that they actually needed it.

Men scurried up the hills and away from the fire. Some dragging trunks, some shouldering valises, some with no more than their mining gear.

Like a trout swimming upstream, Johnnie pressed ever onward.

As the mud became more manageable, the donkey became less so.

The screams of the fire and the terror of the men transferred themselves to his mount.

He forced the animal forward. In the twenty minutes it took him to reach the edges of the Plaza, the fire had turned into a roaring wall of destruction, greedily licking up the entire east side of the square.

The donkey refused to go any farther. Johnnie jumped off and plunged into what felt like the insides of an oven. Ashes, cinders, sparks, and smoke consumed any air worth breathing.

Dennison’s Exchange, the Parker House, and the El Dorado all wore fiery cloaks. Goods of every description lay piled in the muddy Plaza. Men of all nationalities swarmed like bees through the square, no one making any effort to stop the blaze.

Already the fire teased the Cottage Café. He scanned the crowd to no avail. He shouted out Rachel’s name, but a deafening crash shook the Plaza. Dennison’s roof collapsed and the walls caved in.

Reason told him Rachel would have long ago left the cafe
and maybe headed to the waterfront. But his gut was not convinced. After a split second of indecision, he ran to the door of the shop.

The lock scorched his fingers. He worked for several more seconds trying to unfasten it but could not.

Why is the door still bolted? Did she go out the back?

Hurrying to the window, he kicked it in and crawled through, shoving the Christmas tree’s branches aside. Smoke had already filled the place and more poured in the now exposed window. But the room was still navigable and somewhat breathable.

‘‘Rachel!’’ he shouted.

Coughing answered him.

O Lord!

He raced through the eatery and kitchen. On the stairs, Selma had Rachel by the waist, trying to help her down.

Johnnie took the steps two at a time and held out his arms. Rachel came to him. Scooping her up, he ran out the back.

‘‘Come on, Selma! Can you follow?’’ he yelled.

‘‘Yes! Hurry!’’

‘‘Grab my shirt so I know I haven’t lost you!’’

He felt Selma secure a fistful of his flannel, and together they plowed through the mud, down the hill and, finally, to the wharf.

Rachel pressed her face to his shoulder, taking short, quick breaths, interspersed with coughs.

Smoke replaced the morning fog that usually hung over the water. Men crowded the shore and pier, guarding their salvaged belongings.

A violent explosion from the Plaza caused all to cease moving and watch the spectacle on the hill. Johnnie guessed the alcohol within the dens most likely caused the blast.

He splashed into the tide, Selma with him. She swished her hands in the water and wiped Rachel’s face.

‘‘Rachel? Are you all right?’’ Johnnie asked.

‘‘I’m sleepy. And my throat hurts.’’ She coughed and rested her head against him.

‘‘What happened?’’ he asked Selma.

‘‘I don’t know. She was wandering around upstairs, confused. As if she were lost.’’

‘‘Didn’t she hear and smell the fire?’’

‘‘Yes, but from what I can gather, by the time she finished dressing, she’d inhaled so much smoke she couldn’t remember where the stairs were.’’

Rachel coughed.

They moved to the pier and Selma sat down. Johnnie settled Rachel next to her, resting her head in Selma’s lap.

‘‘I’m going to take a little rest, Johnnie,’’ Rachel said.

‘‘You do that, love. You rest.’’ He brushed the hair back from her face. She closed her eyes.

‘‘She’ll be fine,’’ Selma said.

Johnnie swallowed.
Please, Lord, let her be fine
.

‘‘I have to go, Selma. I have to help put out the fire.’’

‘‘Be careful, then. And don’t worry about Rachel. I’ll stay with her.’’

He looked at Selma. Soot covered her face, blackened her hair.

‘‘Thank you,’’ he said.

She gave him a slight smile.

‘‘Where’s Frank?’’ he asked.

‘‘Doing what he can to help, I reckon.’’

Johnnie took Rachel’s hand in his, running a thumb over her knuckles. ‘‘How did you know she was still in there?’’

‘‘I didn’t. I was just checking to be sure. Almost turned around when I got to the upper floor. The smoke was much worse up there.’’

A shiver ran through him. ‘‘Well, I better scrounge up a bucket or two and start filling them.’’

‘‘Go on, Johnnie. She’ll be fine. I’ll stay right here with her.’’

He squeezed Selma’s arm. ‘‘Thank you.’’

————

Rachel opened her eyes, trying to assimilate the babble of voices, the sound of the ocean, the smell of something burning, and the pain in her throat. Where was she?

She attempted the question, but only a moan issued forth.

A tender hand stroked her head. ‘‘How do you feel?’’

It was Selma.

‘‘What’s happening?’’ Rachel whispered.

‘‘The Plaza’s on fire.’’

She struggled to sit up. Selma helped her, supporting her weight by sidling close.

Nothing could have prepared her. Bright red fire consumed what had to be an entire row of buildings up by the Plaza. Timbers crackled. Sparks flew. Jets of fire, steady and intense, shot upward.

‘‘The café!’’ Rachel exclaimed, coming fully awake.

Selma patted Rachel’s arm. ‘‘It had already caught when we got you out.’’

‘‘Got me out?’’

‘‘You don’t remember?’’ Selma asked.

‘‘Not really. Bits and pieces, maybe. I remember you being there.’’

Selma looked away, saying nothing.

Had this girl saved her life? Had this woman, who—according to everything Rachel had been taught—was beyond the pale, risked all to save the very person who had denied her?

Rachel couldn’t remember for certain. But she had a feeling that was the case.

She thought of the prostitute in the Bible who had been taken outside the city walls to be stoned.
He who is without sin among you, let him throw a stone at her first.

In a rush, a multitude of sins that Rachel herself had succumbed to flashed through her mind. In every instance, she had gone before the Lord and begged His forgiveness. Which He had granted. Immediately upon request.

How could she do any less for someone else? Who was she to say one sin was worse than another?

‘‘Have you seen Michael or Lissa?’’ Rachel asked.

‘‘No.’’

‘‘Johnnie? Frank?’’

‘‘Fighting the fire.’’

The words caused a commotion in her stomach.
Keep them safe, Lord. Keep all of them safe
.

She watched the conflagration then noticed the bevy of spectators lounging about the pier. Why weren’t they helping to put out the fire?

Where was the bucket brigade?

The only work being done was by draymen, who emptied their carts of someone’s personal belongings before turning back to the city for another load.

She stirred. ‘‘We must do something.’’

‘‘There is nothing to do. We have no red shirts. No hooks and ladders. The men will have to battle it themselves.’’

‘‘Then we’ll haul buckets of water for them.’’

She pushed herself to her feet, setting off a slight throbbing in her head before she could capture her balance.

Selma quickly steadied her. ‘‘I told Johnnie I’d keep you here.’’

‘‘I’ll handle Johnnie. Come on.’’

With that, they stepped off the pier and began to examine the merchandise stacked along the wharf. Rachel helped herself to a pile of blankets. When she found a barrel of vinegar, she signaled a drayman.

‘‘I need you to place these in your cart and carry them to town.’’

‘‘I’m not hauling that barrel up this hill.’’

‘‘Yes you are. We need it for the fire.’’

He frowned. ‘‘Well, it’ll cost you ten dollars.’’

‘‘Ten dollars? I want you to take it up the hill, not to New York City!’’

‘‘Ten dollars or you can carry it yerself.’’

‘‘The town is on fire. Have you no decency?’’

‘‘No. None at all.’’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘‘Fine. Ten dollars. Come see me at the Cottage Café when this is over.’’

‘‘It ain’t thar.’’

‘‘What’s not there?’’

‘‘The café.’’

She blinked, dumbstruck, then looked at the flames. An overwhelming sense of loss hit her for the first time. She would have to start all over. The very thought made her want to fall to the ground and shake her fists.

Everything she owned, gone. Just like that.

Her work place. Her supplies. Her Bible. Her green Halictidae. Everything.

She took a choppy breath. She wouldn’t be starting off alone. She had a God. And her life. She glanced at Selma. And a friend.

She straightened her spine. ‘‘Then meet me at the place the cafe
used
to be.’’

He chewed on his cheek. ‘‘Did you keep yer dust in the café?’’

She placed her hands on her hips. ‘‘No. I keep it at the customhouse.’’

Those must have been the magic words. He hoisted the barrel onto his cart. She and Selma crammed the blankets around it.

With a nod of her head, Rachel indicated the mercenary man and rolled her eyes.

Selma’s expression conveyed her understanding.

They followed him up the hill, the hissing and roaring of the flames increasing. Men rushed back and forth. The heat intensified.

They headed down Montgomery Street, where men armed with buckets threw water up as high as their strength would let them in an effort to drench the buildings. The fire had not yet reached this point but would before the day was over.