The Measure of a Lady (18 page)

‘‘Go with me?’’

Her heart flip-flopped.
O Lord. Why couldn’t he still be a missionary?

‘‘I’m sorry, but thank you.’’

His gaze never wavered from hers. ‘‘Scared?’’

‘‘Out of my wits,’’ she whispered.

He brought the key to his mouth and kissed it.

Feeling an impact she dared not acknowledge, she took a deep breath. ‘‘We’ll be serving our first meal tomorrow when I ring my bell at noon. Will you be coming?’’

He put the key around his neck, letting it drop underneath his shirt. ‘‘Probably not, love.’’

‘‘I’ll not charge you. Seeing as we’re neighbors and all.’’

He stood for long, tense moments staring. Delving into her very soul with his penetrating gaze. ‘‘I think I’m falling in love with you, Rachel.’’

And then he turned and left.

————

Rachel and Michael filled the tables with platters of beefsteaks, hash, potatoes, bread, biscuits, and griddle cakes, along with tea and coffee, then rang a loud, heavy bell that Michael had found on an abandoned ship.

Men poured in from all quarters, each measuring out three dollars in dust as if it were no more than five pennies. When all were settled about the table, Michael offered a prayer, the conclusion of which signaled a scramble of hands, arms, and elbows.

Dishes flashed by in a blur, foodstuffs slid from platters to plates, crisp commands punctuated the air.

‘‘Taters.’’

‘‘Bread.’’

‘‘Steak.’’

‘‘Coffee.’’

On it went until all were served and shoveling food into their mouths. The cacophony of sounds from moments before dissolved into slurping, chomping, and burping.

Michael and Rachel stood unmoving, then slowly turned to each other.

‘‘Looks like we’re in business, Miss Van Buren.’’

She allowed a smile to stretch across her face. ‘‘So it does, Mr. Van Buren.’’

‘‘Who’s gonna wash all those dishes?’’

Her smile broadened. ‘‘You and me, sir. You and me.’’

‘‘What do you think about hiring on some help?’’

‘‘I think at three dollars a plate, we could hire the Queen of England if we wanted to.’’

————

Rachel turned her head to the side, trying to see her coif in the tiny looking glass hanging above her toilet table. Oh, what she would give for the full-length mirror that had graced her dressing room back home.

And she desperately missed the big feather bed she’d had when renting Johnnie’s shack. But such lavishness was no longer to be had, for she now made do with a cot and a blanket.

The toilet table before her was no more than a trunk elevated by two claret cases and draped with neatly fringed blue linen. Across its top she had placed a rosewood workbox, two Chinese ornaments of exquisitely carved ivory, and a Bohemian glass cologne stand—all token items she’d brought with her from New Jersey.

She smoothed her hand along the twist of hair pinned tightly to the back of her scalp, then reached for her made-over bonnet. She had covered it with green taffeta ribbon and a garland of cherries.

Carefully fitting it on her head, she tied a large bow beneath her chin, dipping and turning to see how she looked in her reseda-green cambric dress. She’d not worn it since arriving but had saved it for a special occasion.

Tonight’s concert at the schoolhouse and the grand opening of the Cottage Cafe
certainly warranted a bit of extravagance.

Moving to a little pine table beside her bed, she briefly scrutinized the oilcloth she had tacked over its top, pleased once again with its result. Pine had such a dreary look about it that she’d not only wrapped her table but also a wide bench that stood at the foot of her bed. Its neat plaid covering gave it an almost sofalike look.

Cupping the lantern on the table, she blew out its flame. Then did the same with the sconces on either side of her looking glass. The warming stove in the corner, with braided rug at its feet, held no fire as of yet, and she paused one last time before leaving the sanctuary of her very own room.

Michael had installed windows that could be rolled open, inviting the ocean’s breeze right into her chamber. The calico curtains draped along the window’s edges waved as if shooing her out the door.

Turning down the wick, she extinguished a genuine gas fixture mounted alongside her door and hurried down the hall to tap on Michael’s door. ‘‘Are you coming?’’

‘‘Be right there,’’ he answered.

Lifting her skirts, she negotiated the narrow stairs leading to the kitchen. All stood clean and quiet after their noonday meal.

It didn’t seem quite right. This peacefulness. The world should have stopped and shared in her mourning of Lissa. Not a day went by that Rachel didn’t think about her. Wonder about her.

Was she happy ‘‘playing house’’ up on that hill? Pretending she was married to that man? Cooking for him. Darning for him. Sharing with him something he had no right to receive?

But the world offered no answers, nor had it stopped spinning. Hadn’t so much as hiccupped. Just kept gambling, drinking, and searching for gold.

Straightening a stack of plates, Rachel sighed and moved into the dining area.

The second pine-board table was the only piece of furniture she’d had to purchase. Oh, how she wished she could have decorated it with some daylilies or buttercups, but of course, there were none to be had.

Biting her lip, she took a seat, folded her hands, and examined the room. The barren walls with two lonely screens of painted roses looked stark and uninviting, but the room had come alive as soon as the men entered it.

She had calculated what she must charge for each meal based on the cost of its ingredients plus profit. The resulting figure bordered on the indecent, so expensive it was. Yet, with eggs costing three dollars each, sugar, tea, and coffee at four dollars per pound, and meat priced up through the roof, she’d really had no choice.

She’d hinted to Michael that they were quite comfortable financially, but the truth of it was they’d have to be very, very frugal in order to pay their rent, pay for their supplies and sundries, and hire some help.

Which meant Michael still needed to find odd jobs and she still needed to work on Johnnie’s property. She’d best not do it on Sundays when he was there. As close as he had come to a declaration yesterday and as close as she’d come to admitting the same, it would not be at all wise.

She gripped her hands together. Just thinking of the way he looked and of the words he’d said created a flurry of activity inside her stomach.

‘‘Rachel?’’

Yelping, she spun around, nearly unseating herself in the process. Johnnie had poked his head and shoulders inside the front door.

‘‘What are you doing?’’ He stepped in, a baffled look in his eyes.

She quickly stood, smoothing her skirts. ‘‘I was, um, praying.’’

‘‘She was daydreaming,’’ Michael said, coming through the back entryway. ‘‘I’d bet my boots we’d have opened two days earlier if we could get back the hours she’s spent ruminating over who knows what.’’

‘‘Michael!’’
She seared him with a look so intense, even he received the silent message and held his tongue. For all the good it did her.

Stiff with humiliation, she could not bring herself to look at Johnnie. And what was he doing here anyway? She’d already told him she wouldn’t allow him to escort her to the concert.

And if he thought to casually walk over to the schoolhouse with her and Michael, then he had another think coming. Even though the three of them would know he wasn’t her escort, no one else would.

She heard Michael walk past and open the door. ‘‘I’ll see you there.’’

‘‘Wait,’’ Johnnie said. ‘‘I need you to wait on the porch. Your sister will need an escort.’’

‘‘Aren’t you taking her?’’

‘‘Not this time.’’

‘‘Then who are those flowers for?’’

Flowers?
she thought. Had he brought her some lupine? But the sting of embarrassment kept her from looking up to see.

‘‘Just wait on the porch, Michael. She’ll be out in a minute.’’

The door closed, then silence.

Johnnie moved into her line of vision several steps back from the table that she hovered behind. Still, she kept her chin tucked.

That didn’t keep her from admiring the tight-fitting gray kerseymere trousers he wore, though. They must have been new. She’d never seen them before. The legs of the pants covered his boots, strapping under the heels to hold them down.

She watched his knees bend as he lowered himself to the point where he could look back up into her face. ‘‘I came to congratulate you on your day’s success. The boys have done nothing but talk about it all afternoon. They especially enjoyed the mince pie you served for dessert.’’

He straightened, and she could not keep from following his progress. The jacket he wore was no ill-fitting ready-made coat of cheap material and cut. Clearly, the wool frock had been custom made by a gifted tailor.

His tucked linen shirt held tiny single pleats running from neck to waist with a cravat of the same fine linen at his throat.

This was no gambler’s garb he wore, but something any gentleman back home would be proud to own. She continued her trek up, finally resting in the solace of his gaze.

O Lord. He’s absolutely beautiful
.

‘‘I wondered if there were any leftovers.’’ His attention moved to her lips. ‘‘Have you a sweet for me?’’

‘‘Yes, actually, I do,’’ she answered.

He moved toward her, bringing out the hand he had hidden behind his back, a huge cluster of delicate cream-colored syringas in his grasp. ‘‘Congratulations.’’

Her gaze flew to his even as she moved around the table to accept his offering. ‘‘Oh. Wherever did you find them?’’

The most penetrating and unique fragrance wafted about her. Closing her eyes, she held them against her nose.

‘‘They are as common as dandelions in the mining camps upriver,’’ he answered. ‘‘A couple of men by the names of Audubon and Crocker brought these in with them today.’’

‘‘Audubon the naturalist?’’

He shrugged.

‘‘Well, they’re beautiful, Johnnie. Thank you ever so much.’’ She brushed a bloom with her knuckle. ‘‘I’m going to go put these in a pitcher of water, then I’ll be right back with that piece of pie.’’

‘‘No. No pie. You’ll be late for the concert. I’ll get it later.’’

When she returned to the dining area, he was nowhere in sight.

She stepped out onto the platform. ‘‘Where’s Johnnie?’’

Michael pulled his pacing up short. ‘‘He’s already left. Come on, the place is filling up fast.’’

Taking her brother’s arm, she glanced at the schoolhouse. A mass of flanneled backs crisscrossed by suspenders crowded the door.

When the two of them arrived, however, the men immediately doffed their hats, parted like the Red Sea, and allowed them to enter.

chapter
16

R
achel pressed a handkerchief to her nose upon crossing the threshold of the packed-to-capacity schoolhouse. A nauseating perfume of sweaty, unwashed, alcohol-ridden men pervaded the room.

She waited until Michael paid a man at the entrance for admittance to the event. Seats were five dollars, standing room three dollars, women free of charge. She heard the doorman inform her brother that every seat had been taken except those on the front row, left side of the aisle, which had been reserved for women.

She scanned the room looking for Johnnie but could not locate him among the masses, for the entire populace had come to their feet upon her entering. Michael took her arm, led her to the front, and faltered when she came to a standstill.

On the left side of the front row sat four women. All extravagantly, yet tastefully, dressed. All women of fair but frail natures. She could not, would not, sit side-by-side with them.

A handsome, even dashing, gentleman on the first row, right hand side, quickly swooped into a bow. ‘‘If it pleases you, miss, I would be honored to offer you a seat.’’

Every tongue stilled and every eye in the place focused upon the unfolding scene. Troubled, she looked earnestly at the man before her.

Large disheveled curls framed a fine clean-shaven face with a patrician nose and a kind mouth.

‘‘But, sir,’’ she said, ‘‘you must have surely come at the earliest of hours to acquire a seat in such a coveted location.’’

‘‘I insist.’’

She smoothed the concern from her face and curtsied. ‘‘Then I insist you visit my cafe
for a free meal. Our grand opening was this very day.’’

He extended a hand to help her rise from her curtsy. ‘‘You are the proprietress of the new Cottage Café , then?’’

‘‘I am.’’ She placed her hand in his and glanced at Michael.

He stepped forward. ‘‘May I present to you my sister, Miss Rachel Van Buren?’’

The gentleman brought her fingertips to his lips, brushing them as quickly and lightly as a delicate butterfly. ‘‘Enchanted.’’

He then held his hand out to Michael. ‘‘Henry Crocker of Minisink, New York.’’

‘‘Michael Van Buren of Elizabeth, New Jersey. Rachel? Mr. Crocker.’’

She lifted her brows. ‘‘Are you, sir, by any chance, working with the naturalist John Audubon?’’

A glorious smile broke wide across his face. ‘‘I’m working with his son, Woody.’’

She crinkled the handkerchief she still held in her hand. ‘‘Good heavens. Do you share his enthusiasm for flora and fauna?’’

‘‘I am but a student to his master, but yes. I have trunks full of painted specimens of the most fascinating nature that I stumbled upon during my crossing here from New York.’’

‘‘Oh. I would love to see them.’’

His eyes lit up. ‘‘It would be my honor to share them with you.’’

His gaze moved to something behind her, and he bowed.

She turned and sucked in her breath. There on the arm of Mr. Sumner stood her sister in an exquisite gown of silk so full from the crinoline beneath, it brushed both sides of the aisle. Her left finger remained glaringly ringless.

‘‘Good evening, Rachel,’’ Lissa said. ‘‘Your bonnet is a lovely accent for the green. Hello, Michael.’’

Michael leaned over and kissed her cheek yet cut her escort cold, allowing not even a flicker of acknowledgment to cross his face. Rachel had no notion what to do. She realized now that she had unwittingly become the before-show entertainment and paled.

Michael quickly grasped her elbow and lowered her into the seat Mr. Crocker had vacated.

Sumner moved past them and seated Lissa next to the Cyprians on the left. Immediately, the five women greeted one another as if long lost friends. The men in the rest of the room lowered themselves back into their chairs.

Rachel felt as if she had been sucked into a vacuum so deep and so dark never would she ascend. Closing her eyes, she tried to quell the nausea in her stomach. She dabbed her handkerchief along her hairline, then against her lips.

The distinctly feminine whispered exchanges from across the aisle assailed her ears, though she could not ascertain their actual words.

Something cold tickled her hand. She opened her eyes. Johnnie stood before her pressing a tin cup of cooled water against her fingers.

Greedily she took it in her grasp and sipped from it, allowing it to soothe her throat, her stomach, her hurt. She gave it back to him, conveying a very private thank-you with her eyes. One meant only for him.

He unobtrusively squeezed the fingers she held the cup with, then strode down the aisle and out of her view. She fixed her attention on the upright piano protruding at a right angle from the wall. A teacher’s desk had been shoved against the west wall and held three men atop it.

Mr. Massett, in a fine frock coat and dark wool trousers, entered with a flourish and introduced himself as a gentleman from New York City who now resided in a shack along the road leading to Washerman’s Lagoon.

Flipping his jacket tails behind him, he took a seat in front of the piano and performed many of his own ballads, applying gusto and drama to his melodious voice. The miners gestured, whistled, and stopped just short of firing their pistols in an uproarious show of approval.

For his recitations, Mr. Massett delighted the company with a comedic imitation of an elderly woman and a German girl applying for positions of soprano and alto singers in a Massachusetts church choir. His audience injected shouts and encouragement throughout.

The finale consisted of a full rendition of ‘‘Yankee Town Meeting,’’ in which Mr. Massett most effectively played all seven parts.

As the audience leapt to their feet for a resounding ovation, Rachel politely joined them. The evening should have been one of the highest points since her arrival, but the presence of her sister mere feet away aligning herself openly and publicly with used women obliterated any pleasure the evening had to offer.

She had spent every moment in prayer—beseeching, interceding, grieving. She could not wait to escape the suffocating sensation the closed-in room impressed upon her.

As soon as decently possible, she turned and scurried down the aisle and out the door, not pausing for even a moment to locate Michael. She all but ran across the Plaza and into the café .

As soon as she crossed the threshold and closed the door, she fell to her knees and covered her face with her hands, keening with deep anguished cries. She felt a quick breeze as the door opened, then quickly shut. The bolt clicked loudly into place.

Then Johnnie was there, holding her, rocking her. Did his intuitiveness have no bounds? How had he known that it had taken every bit of strength in her body to sit through that concert while seeing Lissa from the corner of her eye? Watching her laugh, sway to the music, even put two fingers in her mouth and whistle with the best of them?

Moaning, she pulled away from him and rose to her feet.

‘‘Are you all right?’’ he asked.

‘‘No. If you’ll excuse me?’’

‘‘Rachel.’’

‘‘Good night, Johnnie. And . . . thank you.’’

She left him standing in the dining room and strode straight to her room, as sure as a cicada nymph in its totally black underground chamber, for she had nary a light to guide her.

Falling onto her cot—bonnet, shoes, and all—she grabbed the ends of the coverlet and flipped it over her like a fruit tart, then curled into a ball and pleaded with the Lord to hear her cries, to intervene in Lissa’s life, and to destroy her enemy.

————

Rachel woke in the wee hours of the morning listening to the revelers outside her window. Oh, how she longed for just one night of normalcy. A night with sounds of crickets and frogs and nocturnal animals. A gentle breeze with the smell of fresh sweet corn on its wings. A garden in the back with tomatoes, snap beans, and cucumbers. An innocent and guileless sister whose worst sin was to curl up in the window seat reading Shakespeare by candlelight when she was supposed to be sleeping.

Sitting up, Rachel shuffled to the toilet table and retrieved her buttonhook. She allowed her shoes and clothing to drop to the floor in a heap, leaving them there while she slipped on her nightdress and crawled back into bed—this time underneath the covers.

She took out every action and reaction she’d had since arriving in California, trying to discover what she should have done differently. Where she went wrong. What she needed to do now to resolve the situation with Lissa.

‘‘Fornication and all uncleanness or covetousness, let it not even be named among you. . . . The wrath of God comes upon the sons of disobedience. . . . Let no one deceive you with empty words. . . . Do not be partakers with them. . . . Not to keep company with anyone who is sexually immoral . . . not even to eat with such a person.’’

Bits and pieces of Scripture pelted like rain, until together they formed a dense, murky puddle. Exhaustion tugged at her lids, promising relief from worry, release from guilt. And before she succumbed to its narcosis, the thought of what she must do came to her.

————

Rachel stared at the back of the ‘‘No Prostitutes’’ sign she had propped in the storefront window, then returned her attention to the couple who had inquired about work. They were cousins and had journeyed from Texas to a mining camp near Sacramento, where the woman’s husband had died of exposure.

They sipped their coffee, and Rachel, having made her decision, outlined her new employees’ duties. Frank was a tall, muscular man with a long face and long teeth. His eyes drooped—at the top, eyelids hid a third of his dull brown irises, while at the bottom they revealed nothing but the whites—giving him the impression of a sad hound dog. Rachel judged him to be in his late twenties.

The newly widowed cousin, Selma, was a shy girl with soft hazel eyes, light curly hair, and a solemn mouth.

Rachel set down her cup. ‘‘Well, then, when can you start?’’

Frank lifted his brows. ‘‘How does right now sound?’’

‘‘Marvelous.’’ She stood, escorted them to the kitchen, and put them to work.

Though Frank’s main chore would be to manage rowdy customers, in the meanwhile, he took care of toting, scrubbing, and chopping. Rachel concentrated on food preparation, and Selma proved to be extremely adept at the cooking. Michael did, more or less, whatever he was asked by whomever needed him most.

‘‘Hullo?’’

The call came from the front room. Rachel glanced at the others.

‘‘Would you like me to chase whoever it is out?’’ Michael asked.

‘‘No, I’ll take care it.’’ She wiped her hands on a damp towel, then moved to the dining area.

‘‘Mr. Crocker.’’

He stood just inside the door jacketless, hatless, and hopelessly stiff. His curly hair fell across his forehead in several different directions. A large flat leather satchel hung from his fist.

‘‘Come in, come in,’’ she said. ‘‘It’s so good of you to stop by.’’

His shoulders relaxed. ‘‘Am I interrupting? I was going to wait until you opened, but then I wanted to show you my paintings and thought you would be too busy to look at them during the meal.’’

‘‘Yes, you are quite right. And I would have been dreadfully disappointed. Those are your paintings?’’ She indicated his satchel with a nod of her head.

He hesitated. ‘‘How familiar are you with Audubon’s paintings?’’

‘‘Very.’’

‘‘Mine don’t compare.’’

She patted the table with her hand. ‘‘Show me.’’

He laid his portfolio down and opened it to reveal an intricate painting of two birds, one a deep, rich brown, the other a lighter version of the first.

‘‘Flycatchers,’’ he said. ‘‘This dark one is the male.’’

‘‘Oh look. It’s like they have whiskers. This is the female, then?’’

‘‘Yes. They have a habit of wagging their tails and singing:
phé-be, phé-be, phé-be
.’’

His soft, reedy rendition filled the room, the sound coating her with thoughts of trees and forests and home.

‘‘Do you know more bird calls?’’

‘‘Many.’’ He flipped the paper over, revealing beneath it an olive bird whose bright red eye zeroed in on a spider spinning its web.

She leaned close, squinting.

‘‘It’s a red-eyed vireo,’’ he said.

‘‘I was looking at the spider. It looks a bit like a black-and-yellow garden spider with those markings, but I can’t be certain.’’

At his silence, she looked up, then felt her face heat. His eyes had grown wide.

‘‘Excuse me,’’ she said. ‘‘Please continue.’’

‘‘How is it that you can identify a spider with one glance?’’

She twirled her hand round. ‘‘Oh, I’m sure I’m mistaken. It was just a guess.’’

‘‘On the contrary, you are quite right. Are you a naturalist?’’

‘‘Mercy, no. My penmanship is horrid. I’ve never even attempted to draw. I cannot imagine.’’ She tightened the bow at the back of her apron. ‘‘Besides, I’m not a bird watcher so much as an . . .’’

A smile played at his lips. ‘‘As an . . . ?’’