The Measure of a Lady (27 page)

Gripping the blanket, Lissa looked at the bedraggled women in her kitchen. ‘‘So, what can we do to make the men more comfortable?’’

Josephine shook her head. ‘‘Not much, unless they could lay their heads on some of those big pillows of yours.’’

‘‘My oriental ones?’’

‘‘Do you have any others?’’

‘‘I don’t suppose I do.’’ She paused a moment before padding across the kitchen. ‘‘Well, come on then. Follow me to my room and you can get them.’’

————

Dr. Chadworth, having first tended to the men on the front lines, finally made his way out to Lissa’s place at dusk. Covered with mud and sorrow, he pulled a blanket up over Bart’s head. ‘‘I’m sorry.’’

Rachel’s body immediately felt so heavy her legs struggled to support it. When had he slipped from sleeping to no longer breathing? She’d checked him less than thirty minutes earlier.

She swallowed, fully aware this land claimed many a life, but it was the first time it had claimed one within her realm. Josephine looked at her, eyes tearing as she blinked rapidly to shoo them away.

Rachel grabbed her hand and squeezed.

The young doctor examined each patient. Rachel made mental notes of which treatment he prescribed, but it was Josephine who asked all the questions.

‘‘What are you doing?’’ Josephine asked, as the doctor bent over another man.

‘‘Listening to his breathing.’’

‘‘He’s breathing.’’

‘‘I know, but is it rapid? Shallow? Is it making noises?’’

‘‘What kind of noises?’’

‘‘Oh, bubbling noises or anything sonorous, musical.’’

‘‘Is it?’’

‘‘No, this fellow sounds good. Very good.’’

‘‘What if he were making noises? What would it mean?’’

‘‘It’d be a sure sign of smoke in the lungs, and that can be much more deadly than even the burns.’’

And so it went. The doctor checked for weak pulses, clammy skin, drops in body temperatures, blue fingers or toes. Swelling, restlessness, extreme thirst, blank expressions, oozing pores.

For some, he prescribed poultices. For some, he suggested splints of rolled newspapers to hold their limbs immobile while they healed. For most, he recommended whiskey.

Snapping his medical bag closed, he peered at Josephine. ‘‘Remember, you’re not just treating a wound, you’re treating a fellow human being. And he’ll need much more than a splint and a bandage. He’ll need your attention. Your conversation. Your encouragement.’’

————

And encouragement and attention were what the women gave through the night. Taking shifts, they slept in the spare bedrooms, watched the men, and worked in the kitchen.

The hours before dawn found Rachel on kitchen duty and Annie keeping an eye on the men.

Yawning, Rachel spread honey on some sliced turnips. By morning, they would produce a soothing cough syrup.

A soft knock sounded at the back door. She opened it. Johnnie stood leaning a shoulder against the siding, so covered in black soot he was hardly recognizable.

A warm bubble of euphoria burst inside her. Until now, she hadn’t realized how tense she’d been, wondering if he was all right.

‘‘Morning,’’ he said, reeking of smoke.

‘‘Good morning.’’

‘‘Lissa told me I’d find you here.’’

‘‘And so you have. Is it over?’’

‘‘It’s over. And we’re both homeless. And my Lorenzo Bartolini is gone. Shattered into a million pieces.’’

‘‘Oh, Johnnie. I’m so sorry.’’

He sighed.

‘‘Would you like some coffee?’’

His eyes drifted closed. ‘‘I’m too tired.’’

‘‘Some breakfast?’’

‘‘Too tired.’’

‘‘A bath?’’

He lifted one lid but made no comment.

She touched his hand. ‘‘Are you all right?’’

‘‘I can’t move. I’m just going to sleep right here. ’Night.’’

She stepped out onto the porch with him. The sun must have started its ascent, for it was a bit lighter outside. But smoke overlaid any yellows and pinks nature’s sky had to offer.

‘‘Come on,’’ she said. ‘‘I’ll pump some water and you can rinse off. That will help.’’

She tugged on his hand and he followed.

Bending over the handle, she pumped. Her arms and back protested, but she persevered.

He unbuttoned his shirt and let it hang over his hips then stuck his entire head under the spout. He scrubbed his hair and face, then reared back up.

Water ran down his back. He cupped his hands. She pumped some more.

He swiped his neck, splashed his shoulders and chest, then scrubbed his face again. It didn’t do much good. He was filthy. But whole. And safe. And sound.

She’d quit pumping, taking her fill of this man she’d come to love.

He shivered.

‘‘There are some blankets on the porch,’’ she said.

But the blankets were all gone. She crept into the bedroom and snatched up the one she’d been sleeping under, then took it to him.

He’d secured his shirt, patches of moisture giving evidence to his recent dousing.

Flinging the blanket over himself like a tent, he rubbed his head before pulling it off, then lifted one corner to his nose. ‘‘It smells like you.’’

She smiled. ‘‘Come inside and let’s warm you up.’’

He grabbed her hand and drew her against him. ‘‘Not yet.’’

She snuggled close, sharing her heat with him and ignoring the smell of smoke that clung to his shirt, his hair, his skin.

‘‘We’re homeless.’’

She patted his back. ‘‘You said that already.’’

‘‘We’ll both have to rebuild.’’

‘‘I suppose so.’’

‘‘Seems kind of silly for you to go to all that trouble when you could just share whatever I build.’’

She smoothed her fingers along a tear in the back of his shirt. ‘‘Is that a proposal?’’

He brushed a hand down her hair. ‘‘Seems to be a habit of mine, proposing to you.’’

‘‘What are you building?’’ she asked.

He leaned against the siding, pulling her with him. ‘‘A really big hothouse.’’

She pursed her lips. ‘‘With bedrooms?’’

‘‘No. I guess I’ll have to build a separate house to live in.’’

‘‘That’s good. I’d hate to start my married life sleeping on the floor of a hothouse.’’

He pushed her back so he could see her. ‘‘What are you saying?’’

‘‘I’m saying I’ll marry you, Johnnie.’’

‘‘Because I’m not building a saloon?’’

‘‘Because I love you.’’

‘‘What about my rental properties?’’

‘‘I’m not quite sure how I’ll manage that yet. But I’ve figured out it’s not my job to set the standards. What you do with your business is between you and God. And I trust you both.’’

In her imaginings, this moment held exclamations of joy, accompanied by warm embraces and inspiring kisses.

Instead, he frowned. ‘‘Are you still suffering from the smoke you inhaled.

‘‘No, no. I’m fine.’’

‘‘Then why this sudden change of heart about who I rent my properties to?’’

‘‘Because Jesus didn’t withdraw from the world. He ate with sinners. He befriended tax collectors. He let a prostitute anoint his feet with her unbound hair. Maybe in your business dealings with these lessees, you can offer them a hope they wouldn’t otherwise know.’’

‘‘Just like that? You’ve come to this conclusion just like that?’’

‘‘Well, no. I’ve been praying about it for months. Over and over the Lord would send me to Romans 12, where He talks about His body. And that everyone’s function is different. And that one part of the body shouldn’t think of itself more highly than another. And if He wants to put you in a position where you can minister to the lost in a way that I’m not particularly fond of, well, who am I to argue?’’

‘‘Do you really mean that?’’

‘‘I really mean that.’’

Bending his knees, he yanked her against him and kissed her like he’d never kissed her before. Without breaking their seal, he straightened, lifting her up off the ground and spinning them around.

When he finally released her, they collapsed together against the house.

‘‘Well,’’ she said. ‘‘That was even better than I’d imagined.’’

‘‘Your pardon?’’

‘‘Nothing.’’

He kneaded her back. ‘‘You do know I’d never lease our property to someone who sells women, don’t you?’’

‘‘Yes, I know.’’

‘‘And for what it’s worth, I’m not completely sure anymore about renting to saloon owners. So until I can ascertain a clear answer about that, for now, I’m going to limit my transactions to those merchants who deal in businesses of a less questionable nature.’’

O Lord. Have I told you recently how precious you are to me?

She relaxed into Johnnie. ‘‘Can one of those properties be designated for the rebuilding of the Cottage Café?’’

The massage stopped. ‘‘Why? You needn’t work anymore, Rachel. I’ll do the providing from now on.’’

‘‘Yes. You’re quite right. Someone else ought to run it. Soda, perhaps? Or Frank and Selma? The main thing is I need a place for my wards to work. A safe place that can ease them into an honest day’s work once they are ready.’’

‘‘Wards? What wards?’’

‘‘The wards from my House of Refuge.’’

He sighed. ‘‘What House of Refuge?’’

‘‘The one I’m going to build for girls who don’t want to be prostitutes anymore.’’

She heard his head fall back against the planks of the house. His thumb drew circles at her waist. ‘‘So what you’re saying is you not only want me to build you a restaurant, you want me to build you a House of Refuge?’’

‘‘Yes, please. If you don’t mind.’’

He said nothing.

‘‘You see, I’m going to teach the ones who can’t read, to read. The ones who can’t sew, to sew. The ones who have never learned proper etiquette, proper etiquette.’’

‘‘What will you teach the ones who know all that but just want out?’’

She nestled deeper into his warmth. ‘‘I’ll teach them about the grace of God.’’

‘‘Shouldn’t you think about this first?’’

‘‘I have thought about it.’’

‘‘Discuss it with me, then?

‘‘I am discussing it.’’

He ran his hands along her back. ‘‘You’re telling me.’’

‘‘In an ever so polite way.’’

‘‘Ah, Rachel.’’ He kissed the top of her head.

‘‘Do you object?’’

‘‘There will be those who say passive feelings about such things are all that is suitable for elegant ladies.’’

‘‘Then I guess I’m not elegant.’’

‘‘There will be those who say that reformed or not, fallen women are not fit for any society but that which lies in the graveyard.’’

‘‘And that will make me angry. For it is the very men who say such things that frequent the houses of shame.’’

‘‘Well, that’s certainly true.’’

She nodded. ‘‘You’d be amazed to discover the backgrounds of these women. Selma used to be a music teacher. Did you know that?’’

‘‘I’d heard it.’’

‘‘The women here helping me take care of the men? They’re not evil, Johnnie. They’re just women. Women who have made bad decisions. Like me. Except everyone knows about theirs.’’ She sighed.

‘‘Jesus forgave lots of prostitutes.’’

‘‘Yes, He did.’’

She heard a bout of coughing from the front of the house. ‘‘Will you lose business, do you think, if I do this?’’

‘‘I don’t think so. But even if I did, it wouldn’t matter.’’

‘‘You don’t mind, then?’’

‘‘No. I do have a question, though.’’

‘‘What is it?’’

‘‘Who’s funding this?’’

She smiled. ‘‘Worried?’’

‘‘Just wondering.’’

‘‘Well, for starters, I could use the money I have saved up. Then, I thought I would solicit funds through lectures and print tracts. Maybe some of the preachers could do a sermon for me.’’

He tunneled his fingers into the hair framing her face and tipped her head up. ‘‘What if my tree farm gave a percentage of its profits to your cause?’’

She squeezed him. ‘‘Oh, Johnnie. Would you?’’

‘‘Of course.’’

Raising up on tiptoe, she thanked him in a manner as old as time.

chapter
25

F
inishing her morning prayers, Rachel rose from her knees and looked at the white organdy dress lying across her cot, with new underclothes and stockings by its side.

This was the day she had been preparing for since the moment of her birth. The day she would become a man’s wife. Johnnie’s wife.

Less than a month had passed since the fire, but a month in San Francisco was equivalent to a lifetime anywhere else. By the close of Christmas Day, frames of new buildings had begun to change the silhouette of the Plaza, where two million dollars worth of property had burnt to the ground just twenty-four hours earlier. The square had been one ceaseless sound of hammers, axes, and saws ever since.

The town council had offered Rachel use of the schoolhouse until she and Johnnie could be married. So he began immediate work on the House of Refuge. It was to be a two-story affair set on the hillock overlooking his pond.

He’d constructed it so that the living quarters for her wards would be abovestairs, while a couple of cozy little rooms below would serve for the two of them and any future offspring. Though it was not ready to open, it was habitable, and Johnnie insisted they marry right away so she could stay on the property and help him design his greenhouse and orchard.

The thought of planning a wedding without a mother had so daunted Rachel that she had decided to keep the affair simple. With plans for opening the House of Refuge consuming most of her time, she could barely manage to make a bonnet. Sewing a wedding gown would be out of the question. She had intended to simply remake one of her old dresses into something suitable.

But Selma would not hear of it. Quiet, shy Selma had transformed into a military commander. She shooed away Rachel’s concerns about the time it would take to sew a gown and the money it would cost and the difficulty they would have in even finding fabric.

Selma scoffed at the idea of doing without a silk bonnet. Frivolous or not, she insisted that Rachel would have one.

For every argument, the girl not only had a ready answer, but she had Johnnie as a staunch supporter.

Rachel had no idea how Selma had managed to procure the luxuries she had in this wild town, but procure them she did. The organdy for her gown, the fine silk for her bonnet, and a pair of the softest, most supple white kid gloves she’d ever beheld in her life.

Selma took her measurements with pieces of twine, and two weeks later Rachel had gone out to Lissa’s to check on the handful of men still in recovery. Four of the seven women who had helped out the day of the fire wished to live in the House of Refuge.

Although Lissa expressed no interest in participating herself, she graciously allowed them to stay on while they cared for the men and awaited the opening of Rachel’s house.

It was that very day Selma, Lissa, and those four other women presented Rachel with an ivory gown and an exquisite collection of underclothes. Never had she felt so humbled. So undeserving. So touched. And now it was time to wear them.

A soft knock sounded at the door of the schoolhouse, and Selma peeked her head in. ‘‘I’ve come to help you dress. You ready?’’

‘‘I’m ready.’’

‘‘I ain’t never seen such gewgaws in all my life,’’ Cotton complained, pulling at the round linen collar fastened to his neck with a large white bow.

Smiling, Johnnie straightened his own cravat before turning to the boy. Squatting down, he began to retie the boy’s collar. ‘‘Now, Cotton, ring bearers play a very important role in the ceremony. When you give me the ring I’ll be placing on my bride’s finger, I’m going to need you to look sharp indeed.’’

Cotton heaved a put-upon sigh. ‘‘I’ll do right by ya’, pardner, but it shore seems like a lot o’ magoozlum to go through when you could just sling her over yer shoulder and be done.’’

‘‘Now, you don’t mean that. A man doesn’t sling a sunbonnet over his shoulder, and you know it.’’

‘‘Asa Booker did.’’

Johnnie chuckled. ‘‘Well, that was different. His girl wasn’t exactly a sunbonnet.’’

‘‘He married her, didn’t he?’’

‘‘He did.’’

‘‘Then don’t that make her a bonnet?’’

Johnnie paused. ‘‘It does to me, boy. It does to me.’’ Squeezing Cotton’s shoulder, Johnnie stood. ‘‘Now, try and leave that bow alone, all right?’’

Cotton crossed his eyes and wrapped his hands around his neck as if he were choking.

Johnnie slapped him playfully on the back. ‘‘Me, too, son. Me, too.’’

————

The waiting was going to turn Rachel’s brains to crackers. Where in the great horn spoon was Selma? Rachel had insisted that Selma stand up with her. She had asked Lissa, but once again her sister had gently begged off.

After much vacillating and with a great deal of reluctance, Selma had finally agreed. But only if she could wear a simple gown of her choosing. Nothing extravagant. And no fancy bonnet to match the bride’s. Rachel had long ago acquiesced and all had been arranged.

Now the day had arrived, and Selma had arrayed Rachel in her finery and then left to prepare herself. She should be here by now.

Rachel could hear the crowd gathering in the Plaza outside and spun at the knock on her door.

‘‘Selma?’’

The door opened.

‘‘Michael. Oh, look at you.’’

Wearing a brown wool suit and shiny new boots, he handed her a thick bouquet of wild pink roses. ‘‘These are from Johnnie.’’

‘‘Good heavens.’’ Their delicate scent floated about her.

‘‘You look beautiful.’’

The wonder in his voice made her smile. ‘‘Thank you. Do you know where Selma is?’’

‘‘Frank said she’s been casting up her accounts for the last hour and hasn’t let up yet. I don’t think she’s going to be able to stand up with you, Rachel.’’

A wave of acute disappointment poured through her. ‘‘Oh no.

Why, she was fine when she left here earlier.’’

‘‘I think it must be nerves. You know how she is.’’

‘‘Do you think she’s really sick or merely pretending to be so she won’t have to stand in front of this crowd?’’

He shook his head. ‘‘She’s sick, Rachel. I heard her myself, and she was retching her guts out.’’

‘‘Oh, that poor thing.’’

Rachel blinked rapidly. She had tried so hard not to think about Lissa and had almost managed it. But now she’d have no one. Not her mother, not her sister, not even her dear friend.

Michael stepped forward and gave her an awkward hug. ‘‘Now, don’t cry. Your eyes get all red and buggy when you cry.’’

She swallowed and shut her lids until the urge to shed tears passed, even though the grief did not.

‘‘There. That’s better,’’ he said. ‘‘And I’ll stand up with you. The whole time. Seems only right, don’t you think?’’ He stuck out his arm.

She studied her tall, lanky brother in his snappy brown suit and freshly cut hair. He’d recently started working at the mercantile and had come by to see her several times since the fire.

He had no plans to move in with her and Johnnie, but many an evening had found him asking for Johnnie’s advice on investing and various other ventures. Maybe they did become men earlier out here in the West.

‘‘Thank you, Michael. I would love for you to stand up with me. That would truly be wonderful.’’

‘‘You nervous?’’

‘‘Terrified.’’ She put her hand in the crook of his elbow.

‘‘Have you told him you snore?’’

She gasped. ‘‘I do not snore.’’

He patted her hand and winked. ‘‘Yes, you do, Rache. Yes, you do.’’

Rachel walked out onto the schoolhouse steps blinking at the brightness of the sun and holding tightly to Michael’s arm. The men gave out a roar of approval that lasted the whole of five minutes. Even Reverend Taylor’s booming voice couldn’t settle them down.

They filled the Plaza to capacity, some standing on a temporary dance floor made of loose planks, the rest crowding around in the ankle-deep mud. None but the wedding party had dressed for the affair, but a more appreciative group of guests a couple couldn’t have found.

Johnnie took those moments of abandon to behold his bride with her fitted bodice, tiny waist, and fluffy skirt. The wide-brimmed bonnet she wore hid her face from curious eyes. From all, that is, but his.

The men finally settled, and Michael gave her over to him. She moved down one step, and the reverend moved up. Helping her turn her back to the crowd, Johnnie squeezed her hand, then gave his full attention to the preacher, loudly pledging before God and company his love for this woman and his vow to honor, cherish, and keep her.

When it came time for the ring, he took her gloved hand, raising his brows in silent question. She had not made a slit in the fourth finger.

‘‘I couldn’t bear to cut it,’’ she whispered.

Nodding, he turned her hand over and released the pearl button at the junction of her wrist, then peeled the glove down, exposing her soft, creamy hand. He brought her palm to his lips, holding it there briefly before sliding the rest of the glove from her fingers.

Cotton yanked on Johnnie’s frock coat and gave him a stern look.

Johnnie took the proffered ring from the boy and slid it onto Rachel’s finger, repeating the reverend’s words. Her eyes widened with wonder, then delight.

He’d had their pearl mounted onto the traditional gold band.

————

Rachel’s wedding wasn’t exactly the way she had always imagined it, yet she wasn’t disappointed. Shortly after the ceremony, the men pulled green baize tables from the saloons and under Selma’s direction filled them with a hodgepodge of foodstuffs. The girl appeared to be fully recovered, if a bit pale.

She still wore her work dress, and though the men wanted to dance with her, she insisted her constitution was not up to it. So, instead, she oversaw the refreshments, cornering Frank, Michael, and Soda for help.

Dancing had indeed commenced. Every man present requested a turn with Rachel, but Johnnie would not release her for even one. So the men danced with each other while Johnnie kept her tucked closely at his side.

None of the women from Lissa’s were present. If they had attended, the company would have assumed they were ‘‘working,’’ and none were willing to do so.

Johnnie introduced Rachel to many more men than she could possibly remember, though a few of his closest friends kept her vastly entertained.

She met Cotton’s father. And Levi Strauss, who had a dry goods business. Phillip Armor, a butcher down on Montgomery Street. John Studebaker, a wheelbarrow maker. Samuel Clements, a columnist for the newspaper. Henry Wells and William Fargo, bankers new to town.

The sun was still high in the sky when Reverend Taylor rang the schoolhouse’s bell. He called the bride and groom up, and the crowd quieted as they took their place beside the preacher.

‘‘The boys knew if you’d been home,’’ Taylor boomed, ‘‘you’d have been showered with everything a young couple needed to get started.

But this bunch is a few pence short of patchwork quilts and pillow sachets.’’

The crowd chuckled and Rachel glanced at Johnnie. He stood before them in a frock coat of mulberry, a wild rose from her bouquet pinned to his lapel. So handsome was he in his white waistcoat and doeskin trousers, she thought that no magazine could have painted a finer figure than he.

‘‘But there was one thing the fellas here could supply you with that home could not,’’ the reverend continued.

A disturbance from the Delmonico Restaurant captured everyone’s attention. Soda, Frank, Michael, and a fourth man struggled to haul a tall shrouded object to the bottom of the schoolhouse steps.

‘‘Allow me to introduce Mr. Thomas Crawford,’’ the reverend said. ‘‘Though he hails from New York City, he has come to us most recently from Rome, Italy.’’

The fourth man who had helped with the carting stepped forward, grabbed a corner of the shroud, and whipped it off. If this Crawford man had sculpted it, he had extraordinary talent.

This female statue held the exact same pose as the one that had broken in the fire, but this one was clothed in a sculpted calico and sunbonnet.

A slow smile split Johnnie’s face. ‘‘Well, boys, I’ve mourned the loss of my Lorenzo Bartolini something fierce and wondered how I’d ever persuade my wife to let me have another.’’ He pulled her against his side. ‘‘But now, I have something even better. An original Thomas Crawford, handcrafted in the soon-to-be state of California, and a bride who will let me display it in full view. We both thank you!’’

The men cheered and whistled and shot their guns. Johnnie drew Rachel down to exchange words with the sculptor. Well-wishers surrounded them.

They slowly made their way to the opposite edge of the Plaza, where Johnnie left Rachel with Selma while he collected Sweet Lips and J.B.

Selma wiped her hands on a cloth.

‘‘You were supposed to be an attendant, not work yourself to the bone,’’ Rachel said. ‘‘Why, I never even saw the dress you were going to wear.’’

‘‘Lands, I had a marvelous time. I’d much rather be doing this than wearing some pretty dress and dancing with all those woman-hungry men.’’

They hugged.

‘‘Thank you for letting me help,’’ Selma said.

Rachel squeezed her. ‘‘Thank
you,
Selma. For everything. I don’t know what I would have done without you.’’

They slipped apart but grabbed hold of each other’s hands. The two of them stood there, treasuring the special bond that had formed between them over these last few weeks.

A slow frown crinkled Selma’s brows. She darted a quick glance at Johnnie rounding the corner with the horses.

‘‘Oh dear,’’ she whispered. ‘‘I probably should have spoken to you about, um, what to expect. Never crossed my mind. I plumb forgot you don’t have a mama.’’

Rachel smiled with a show of confidence she didn’t feel. ‘‘Don’t worry about me,’’ she whispered back. ‘‘I read my father’s medical books, but don’t tell anyone.’’

‘‘Mercy me. Maybe we better go to the schoolhouse and let me help you out of your wedding finery.’’