The Measure of a Lady (3 page)

She moistened her lips. ‘‘What about real estate?’’

He reached for his paper. ‘‘I was just looking over that very thing.’’ Folding the paper in half, then in half again, he slid it toward her. ‘‘Lots are running about fifteen hundred.’’

She leaned over the paper, not to look at the prices, but to try and corral her desperation.

‘‘How much money do you have?’’

She gasped. ‘‘Mr. Parker.’’

‘‘This is no time to be standing on ceremony, Miss Van Buren. You are what, about twenty years of age?’’

She neither confirmed nor denied his estimate, though he was dead on.

‘‘There are upwards of three thousand men in this town,’’ he continued. ‘‘With your father gone, you’ll need some guidance.’’

She stiffened. If there was one thing Mama had instilled in her at an early age, it was a distaste for men who automatically assumed a woman had no power within her brain. Though an unpopular view in the East, it was one that had begun to gather momentum amongst the women in Mama’s circle.

‘‘And what, sir, makes you my self-appointed guardian?’’

He stilled. ‘‘Your pardon. I didn’t mean to presume.’’ He stood. ‘‘If you will excuse me?’’

She blanched at his rebuke. Clearly, he’d offered out of kindness, misplaced or not, and she’d responded without thinking. Before she could recover, much less apologize, he had left the room.

————

Leaving instructions for Michael to look for employment and for Lissa to stay in the shack to receive their trunks as soon as someone could be found to transport them, Rachel headed straight to the wharf. The ship they had arrived on, along with dozens of others, sat silent and empty in the bay.

There would be no vessels leaving San Francisco anytime soon. Former farmers, professionals, and ruffians poured through the streets buying picks, shovels, and pans before heading upriver. Abandoned, their trunks sat on the beach beside a hodgepodge of dilapidated chairs, soiled provisions, and empty liquor bottles. The two partially finished wharves jutted out into the water, pointing to the deserted ships.

Muddy ochre hills dotted the southern and western borders of the village, bare but for low scrub and chaparral, yet protecting the community from the wind whipping off the bay.

Rachel climbed back up the hill. Unpainted shacks and vast numbers of tents dotted the landscape. And at every footfall was a gaming hall. That these saloons were not only open for business at this early hour but bulging with customers produced a great deal of consternation within her.

Their canvas walls shook and swayed as if the tents themselves were intoxicated. One such structure with grimy muslin stretched between its wooden posts sported a sign that read ‘‘Boardinghouse, $24 a week’’.

Approaching the open doorway, she slipped in for a closer look. The smell of cigars, liquor, and unwashed men filled her nostrils. Cards slapped, bottles clinked, men guffawed.

In the corner a fiddler ground out ‘‘Old Dan Tucker.’’ Beside him a Spanish-looking woman with unbound curly hair danced to the music, her skirt hiked well above her ankles, displaying bare feet and the absence of pantalets.

Rachel’s mouth went dry. Twirling around, she bumped square into a pot-bellied man with shaggy brown hair and an overgrown beard. He grasped her upper arms to keep her from tumbling over, she supposed, then let go as if he’d been singed.

‘‘A sunbonnet woman.’’ It sounded more like a prayer than an observation. He whipped off his hat. ‘‘You lost, missus?’’

‘‘Miss. And, no, I was looking for room and board but have clearly come to the wrong place.’’

He grasped her elbow and escorted her out the door. No sooner had they crossed the threshold than he proposed marriage. With her shocked silence came a repeat of his entreaty.

The man topped her by about a half inch, smelled of unspeakable odors, and looked as if his strained suspenders would snap in two at any moment. She couldn’t guess at his age, what with his bushy beard and sunburned skin, but his hazel eyes were clear and very serious. In spite of herself, she felt an unexpected softening to such obvious admiration. ‘‘Thank you, sir, but no. Right now all I require is a place to board.’’

‘‘I got that, miss. Say the word and it’ll belong to the both of us.’’

‘‘I’m not in the market for marriage at the moment.’’

His face filled with alarm. ‘‘Every ’spectable woman’s in the market for marriage.’’ Leaning over, he spit out a stream of tobacco.

Good heavens. ‘‘I’m sorry, truly I am. Now, if you will excuse me?’’

He shifted over, then followed her down the walkway, across the street and around the corner. One by one, other miners joined him, and within a block’s span, she had an entire entourage trailing her.

The men spoke to each other as if she were not present.

‘‘Look at them slippered footprints. You ever seen such dainty-like prints, Mitch?’’

‘‘Cain’t say as I have. Where’s her pa, you think?’’

A third voice chimed in. ‘‘Probably up the river and lookin’ for the elephant already.’’

‘‘Naw. I seen this sunbonnet at the City Hotel last night. Her Pa died ’fore he ever hit the shore.’’

‘‘She’s alone? But there ain’t no place for sunbonnets to stay. Not that I knows of, anyway.’’

‘‘Me neither. She’ll have to marry one of us.’’

‘‘I’m the best lookin’. Oughta be me.’’

A dull pounding began at her temple. A whiff of spirits grazed her nose.

‘‘Cain’t be you. You’re poor as a church mouse. No, Chauncey’s a sight better on the eyes and has a sack full of dust at the tent.’’

‘‘Not no mores. Spent it on a couple o’ them Frenchies in the Plaza last night.’’

She spun to face them, her skirt flinging out mud like kernels in a corn sheller. ‘‘
Gentlemen
. If you please?’’

The gathering was even larger than she had supposed. All skidded to a halt, all removed their hats, all presented her with ridiculous smiles.

One brave soul stepped forward. ‘‘Marry me, miss?’’

‘‘No . . . thank you.’’

Another knelt, plopping a knee into the mud. ‘‘Would you do me the honors?’’

She reined in her exasperation. ‘‘No. I’m sorry.’’

His expression fell.

Pulling her gaze from his, she ran it across the assembly. All had the unspoken question on their lips. She wilted a bit before taking a deep breath and squaring her shoulders.
‘‘No.’’

‘‘But without your pa, there just ain’t no place for unmarried ladies to stay.’’ This from the young man still kneeling at her feet. ‘‘You’ll be needin’ to double up, miss, and I’m as good a feller as the next.’’

She closed her eyes, prayed for patience, tried to suppress a spurt of anger toward her late father, and very sweetly but firmly refused once again. Then she resumed her search.

But rather than discouraging the men, her polite refusal seemed to have emboldened them, and they stuck with her, adding steadily to their numbers throughout the afternoon. She decided the proper thing, the only thing, was to pretend they weren’t there.

She did find places to stay—for men. But she had seen dog kennels at home that were nicer than the conglomeration of hovels that made up the city of San Francisco, and they certainly were no place for two women and a boy to lodge. Why hadn’t the papers warned of these deplorable conditions? What in the world were they to do?

The legitimate boardinghouses overflowed with men on floors, tables, benches, shelves, cots, and bunks, all covered with filth. She found the restaurants much the same but with bad fare worked into the equation. She didn’t even bother to ask for prices; she wouldn’t have stayed had they been free.

Crammed betwixt and between these coops were more barrooms, saloons, and public houses than a body should ever see. Much to her disgust, gambling clearly dominated the life and soul of the town. Why, at this very moment her devotees were betting on how long she’d last before ‘‘marrying up.’’

And the marriage proposals had continued relentlessly. Surely even Penelope did not have to endure such as this. What she would give for a glimpse of just one other respectable female.

Boards, bushes, and tobacco boxes lay in the street as a makeshift walkway. The sun began to set and the saloons became livelier, causing the size and makeup of her ‘‘following’’ to finally dissipate as the call to gamble lured the men away.

She had only intended to leave Michael and Lissa by themselves for a couple of hours. Concern for how they had managed without her for an entire day quickened her pace.

Barely lifting her skirts, she picked, jumped, strode, and tottered back down Washington Street to the Plaza. The closer she came to the Plaza, the larger and noisier the saloons, until finally she stood across from the hotel. Her stomach growled, her legs ached, her bonnet drooped, and her disposition flagged.

She’d had nothing to eat other than that sip of coffee from this morning. All she wanted was to freshen up in the shanty out back and have a bit of soup, but the crowd of men outside the door covered the huge verandah and spilled over into the muddy street.

She frowned, for though she had discovered the gambling houses stayed busy during the day, she also knew that no one stood idle for very long. Men passed each other, jostled the next one’s shoulder, and threw out insults by the minute, but never did they stand still, much less silent.

But still and silent they were until someone shouted, ‘‘Here she comes.’’

Anticipation rippled through the crowd. She tensed. Surely they weren’t waiting for her. But no, they didn’t turn around—were not, in fact, even aware she stood there. She watched the mass step back as one, as solemn as if someone had died.

It wasn’t until Lissa appeared from around the corner of the verandah that all the day’s aggravations surged to the fore and grabbed hold of Rachel’s very being. How
dare
they subject a girl of her age to such treatment?

With outrage pumping through her blood, Rachel flounced across the street, shoved her way through the throng, and whirled to face them, effectively blocking Lissa from view. ‘‘Just what do you think you are doing?’’

A sea of men with flannel shirts, topcoats, pea jackets, and even a Mexican blanket stood tongue-tied before her. The sound of a fiddle from one of the neighboring saloons wove through the air.

‘‘Is something amiss?’’

She jerked her attention to Mr. Parker as he leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, crossed one ankle over the other, then took a long puff on his cigar. Not even for an instant would she appreciate his cleanliness and freshly shaved face, not so long as he was one of
them
.

‘‘Cannot a lady walk on the street without constantly being accosted by unwelcome attention?’’

He blew a steady stream of smoke into the air. ‘‘The attention might be unwelcome, but I feel sure it would be respectful.’’

She narrowed her eyes, fumes from his cigar curling around her.

‘‘Rachel,’’ her sister implored.

She ignored Lissa’s plea. The girl was too sympathetic by half.

‘‘I will not have Lissa ogled. She’s but a girl.’’

‘‘I’m fifteen. Sixteen in two months.’’

‘‘Hush up.’’

‘‘Rachel?’’ This from Michael, holding his hat in his hand. Not out of courtesy but out of necessity, for it was filled to brimming with gold.

‘‘Michael! What are you doing with all that?’’

‘‘It’s ours, Rachel.’’ His eyes shone with pride. ‘‘The men paid an ounce of gold just to hear Lissa sing for five minutes time.’’

Blood drained from Rachel’s face then surged back into it. ‘‘Give it back. Every last bit of it.’’

Michael balked. ‘‘I can’t do that.’’ He frowned, then straightened his shoulders. ‘‘I won’t do that.’’

‘‘Oh, yes you will.’’

Rumbling began amongst the miners.

Mr. Parker stepped forward. ‘‘Miss Van Buren, the men become a bit agitated when they don’t get what they pay for.’’

She centered her focus onto him. ‘‘I cannot
believe
you would be party to this.’’

He raised his brows. ‘‘I’ve nothing to do with it. In fact, this clever scheme of your lovely sister’s is keeping patrons from my establishment.’’ He gently grasped her elbow. ‘‘Now, if you please.’’

She resisted his tug, but he increased the pressure on her elbow, bending down to whisper in her ear. ‘‘The men are intoxicated, they have guns, and, as you know, we are without a single police officer or watchman. You may take your sister to the back in but five minutes time. For now, however, and for the safety of all, you must step back. Please.’’

This couldn’t be happening. What was Lissa thinking? Mama would turn over in her grave were she to witness such impropriety.

Her head light, she allowed him to pull her against the front of the hotel. The cheers of the men made her ears ring as Lissa smiled adoringly at the crowd then began to sing ‘‘Now Gently O’er the Moonlit Sea.’’

It was supposed to be a quartet for female voices, and Lissa had sung it in many a drawing room with other girls her age, but that was different. She had been in the homes of dear family friends, with invited guests.

Rachel scanned the rough crowd, whose expressions would have been comical if the situation had not been so dire. All of them, that is, but one.

He stood on the perimeter of the crowd, calmly watching the scene before him, his speculative gaze roving boldly over Lissa. He looked nothing like the typical miner. This handsome but solemn-faced gambler wore a black frock coat and skintight green checkered trousers.

Goose pimples broke out across Rachel’s arms and up her spine. She shivered.

The pressure on her elbow increased for a fleeting moment. ‘‘Steady, now, it’s almost over.’’

She barely registered her captor’s comment, noting instead, for the first time really, how much Lissa had matured these last few months. Her sister’s curves were more those of a woman’s, and her height nearly matched Rachel’s five-foot-six. Would, perhaps, surpass it soon.

The face beneath the bonnet was such that one would not be able to tell if she were fourteen years or twenty. On top of that, not only did she have all her teeth, but they were straight, pretty, and framed on each side by deep, attractive dimples. Wispy blond curls escaped her bonnet, clinging to her neck and collar.