“I never have.”
“Hardy settlers there.” He mentioned an Owens family he’d given food to after their arduous journey back in the ’40s. “They named a child after me. They had a girl with an interesting name too.” He thought. “Bethina. Another bright child.” Van wandered in, looking lost. He jumped onto Josiah’s lap and waited for the pets he knew would come—and did.
When Jennie finished writing, Josiah said, “I think we should give that ring to Winifred so she’ll have something very personal of her grandmother’s. I’ll tell her when she’s older about the stricture of fashion and that the ring can remind her not to be bound by tradition unless absolutely necessary.”
It was a bit disconcerting to hear “we should give the ring.” Perhaps he and Elizabeth had been a “we” for so long he didn’t know how to now say “I.”
“That would be lovely.”
“This is a country that demands courage of even its women. Winifred won’t have to live with the hardships Elizabeth did when we first arrived at the coast. But each generation has its own challenge.” His eyes closed. “She always wanted a girl, not that she didn’t love our sons with the fierceness of a mountain cat. But she missed being reminded of her own growing, her own mother and daughter-ness. A girl would have brought that to her. At least she always thought so. It was our one regret. Your presence helped fill that well for Elizabeth.”
Had she seen Jennie as the daughter she never had? She hadn’t gotten that impression. They were friends.
“I had a daughter.” Why am I telling him. “Ariyah.”
“Named for your friend?”
Jennie nodded. Of course he would have known, being a friend of her father’s. “She . . . she didn’t survive her birthing. There were complications. The cord.” She swallowed. “No doctor came in time. I always wished I’d been schooled in medicine and perhaps I might have saved my child.” She didn’t tell him about Charles’s betrayal that evening, arriving too late with a doctor, alcohol on both their breaths.
“I think I remember your father saying something about the baby. I’m sorry.”
“Elizabeth and I share that regret, of never having a girl to raise and pamper.” I should change this sad subject.
“You’re young yet. You’ll remarry.”
He handed the ring back to her, and she wrapped it in the foolscap where she’d written the story, with WINIFRED in block letters on the front. She stood to put the paper package in the basket where Josiah had placed other items for Charles Winn and Annie. Other baskets contained treasures for Norman and Henrietta and Samuel too: a locket from England, a penny dreadful she knew Norman would like to read—Malaeska: The Indian Wife of the White Hunter—a cross and a lamp from Algiers, dear items Elizabeth had treasured. As she passed by Josiah, he reached up to touch her arm. “I can’t thank you enough for staying with me to do this.”
“It’s been my pleasure.”
He held her hand then, rubbed his thumb across her knuckles, her ringless fingers. It was an absent gesture, a desire for human touch, Jennie suspected, but it felt warm and kind. A log rolled in the fireplace. She pulled her fingers free and kept walking toward the baskets as he rose to poke at the flames.
“I feel a little guilty,” she said. “Because the stories and your reminiscences are so precious. Your children should really be hearing them, not me.”
“They’ll have the stories. To read at their leisure.” He sounded dismissive, the first negative emotion she’d witnessed from him. But every family had dozens of incidents with tangled memories attached. She wasn’t privy to them nor did she want to be. Josiah continued. “I left home at a young age, so I have few family memories past my youth. I think my father was disappointed I became a minister and headed west with Elizabeth. He thought I did well as a blacksmith—and I did, as a blacksmith for God and the Lee Mission here in Oregon. My work with the Indians was profoundly satisfying.”
He stood then, still able to stand as a young man without pressing against the arms of a chair. He faced a great loss, but he wasn’t beaten down by it. “I doubt my father ever understood that one can combine an occupation with a God-directed purpose and find both challenge and fulfillment there.”
“Perhaps the key is seeking that direction.”
“It is. And in staying close to always wonder if the work of love we’re called to do is what we’re actually doing. I’ve told my sons to do something they loved. Fulfillment will follow.” He tugged on his beard, and Jennie wondered if his words could speak to her, to do something that drew her and purpose would appear. “Charles Winn always loved to disagree,” he continued, a smile on his face. “Now he argues on behalf of those less fortunate, miners and their widows. He was led to lawyering, the perfect occupation for him.”
Despite the goal being to sort the belongings of a loved one, Jennie found the time filled with joy not only in discovering more about Elizabeth and her life but of their lives together. And there were insights into her own grieving, about how to celebrate what had been left behind rather than lament what no longer was. She might never understand the role she played in the dissolution of her marriage. Had she carried resentment too long, been angered by the change in possibilities after Charles fell? Was she too demanding about having things go her way? But she was here now and she’d been given a new path, to help heal others as she allowed others to help heal her. She must forgive both Charles and herself so she’d be free to raise Douglas with gentleness, not the unspent anger meant for his father.
She considered bringing Douglas to the Parrish house until they finished, but she didn’t want to disrupt Douglas’s life more than necessary. There’d be another adjustment when she found other employment and worked out where they’d live next.
In between directed efforts of making notes and sorting, Josiah and Jennie continued to share meals. Beneath the dining-room chandelier, they spoke of world affairs; of certain southern states being given representation to the Congress by agreeing to never amend their constitution to deny Negroes the right to vote, hold office, or gain education. She learned that Josiah was an abolitionist who grieved the death of President Lincoln. They talked of the transcontinental railroad, now complete, and how it would change the world. Josiah had driven the first spike in Portland for the tracks between Portland and California the year before. The Fifteenth Amendment passed, giving Negro men the right to vote . . . but not yet women of any color. Jennie expressed her dismay at the delay. They discussed the day’s schedule, Chen refilling coffee cups. They laughed at Van’s antics as he raised his paws to jump onto Jennie’s lap as he’d done to Elizabeth just short weeks before. She was as contented as she had ever been.
Caring for another required taking care of oneself first, and Jennie hadn’t always done that. This time of sorting through Elizabeth’s things had been a respite. Did Elizabeth know she’d need that time? She didn’t think of their readying the house to be closed as “taking care” of Josiah though. Elizabeth might be surprised to see how well Josiah was doing, grieving her with strength and hopefulness but finding moments of joy. At least that was how Jennie saw him. They shared a kind of intimacy in letting go of Elizabeth, an intimacy Jennie began to wonder if Elizabeth had known would take on a new story in the months ahead, an intimacy Elizabeth nurtured before she left this earth.
20
Tendrils of Change
Jennie finished putting sheets over the furniture in the upstairs bedroom that had been Samuel’s. It was an early December morning in 1869 with the sun shining and a mist rising from the still-unfrozen fields. Josiah left to attend a construction meeting related to the orphanage. Only Josiah’s bedroom and the one Jennie used downstairs remained to be gone through. The kitchen was Chen’s domain, and it had been decided he’d go to Portland with Josiah when the work here was finished. Aware she had some time before Josiah returned and that it had been weeks since she’d seen Ariyah, Jennie bundled up against the cold, gave Van a pat, and headed ou
t.
“I can’t believe your birthday came and went and I did not have a package sent your way. I’m a perfect failure as a friend.” Ariyah opened her door with wide arms of acceptance and an apology.
Jennie hadn’t thought much about her twenty-sixth birthday passing on November 29. “Hello to you too.”
Ariyah took Jennie’s cape and muff while Jennie untied the bow at her throat and pulled the hat from her head. Her wool skirt swirled raindrops as she lifted the bustle and sat, grateful that Ariyah’s chairs were wide as church pews but much softer.
“No apologies are needed. I’m equally at fault for not coming by, especially not being more faithful in checking on your pregnancy.”
“It took us forever, I know. I think the strawberry tea you brought over last spring did it. Peleg listened to your description and he made the tea often after that. I thought I’d float away, or at least a baby would, I drank so much.”
“Babies do live in water, you know.”
“So I’ve heard. Here’s something else.” She patted the braids wrapped around the crown of her head. “My blonde, almost-white hair has darkened, don’t you think?” It did appear so. “Why would that be?”
“I don’t know. Maybe . . . the changes your body is going through keeping your baby happy.”
“All is going well, though. I’m perfectly grateful.”
“Will you move to your own place once you have your family started?” If Jennie were her, it would be hard to leave the luxuries, but at the same time living with others could stymie a relationship. She had experience with that.
“I don’t think so. Peleg loves being here and my parents love him, and now with the baby coming, why change?”
“There’ll be change enough with a child, that’s certain.”
“How much longer will you stay at the Parrish house?”
“Is there talk?”
“Oh no, at least not around me there isn’t. I know it’s perfectly innocent, your living there with him.”
“I’m not living with Mr. Parrish. I’m simply helping him in a time of need, looking after the dog.” So people are gossiping.
“That’s what I tell people. And that his sons are grateful you’ve stayed to do the mournful work.”
“So there’s talk.” She didn’t want to stain the Parrish reputation in any way and especially not do anything that might diminish Elizabeth’s legacy. “We’re almost finished. Maybe I’ll spur things up. I wouldn’t want tongues chirping like the crickets.”
“Let them. You’re helping a friend. That’s all that needs to be said.”
But was it?
They looked at tiny baby items knitted by friends and Ariyah herself. Peleg’s family had sent a lace cap and gown for the baptism one day. Ariyah pulled Jennie into her bedroom to show off her own latest hat and gloves. “The millinery has wonderful new things shipped from back East and the Orient. With the railroad, I wonder if we’ll get things from San Francisco sooner.”
“We can travel between San Francisco and Council Bluffs, Iowa, faster than we can get from here to San Francisco by rail. It’ll be a decade or more before they figure out how to take a track across the Siskiyou Mountains. No, we’ll still have to wait for ships bringing what we long for from San Francisco.”
“You must come with me sometime soon to that shop. The reticules are beaded with little cut glass, and there are velvet ones as soft as a lamb’s nose.”
“It would be fun to look,” Jennie said.
Ariyah clapped her hands. “Let’s go now, could we? I’ll have the carriage brought around.”
There wasn’t anything holding her back. Josiah wouldn’t return for several hours. “I won’t be purchasing, but I could ogle, as my father would say.”
“‘Ogle.’ Is that German?”
Jennie nodded. “It means to stare and maybe desire, but nothing else.”
“I like it. I’ll ogle too, unless I see something I simply have to have. Then I’ll tell Peleg to buy it for me.” She grinned, then gathered up her cape and hat, tying the latter beneath her already doubling chin.
Jennie remembered how full her face got when she carried her children. Her dimples even disappeared.
Jennie had a pang of longing, then chided herself. It did no good to compare her failed marriage to the joyous one of Ariyah and Peleg, or even Elizabeth and Josiah’s loving life together. Her chance for that had passed. She had been blessed with loving parents and siblings, a son, good employment, a future even as a divorced woman, and great friends. She would cling to that.
Millie’s Millinery was housed in a brick building not far from Ferry Street, nestled near a hotel. Millie hoped to attract female guests traveling through. Carpenters’ hammers pounded in the distance as they worked on a new opera house, and Jennie wondered if Charles might have found work there. If he had, maybe he could make a payment toward the debt. But he won’t, the swindler. A sign in the window read “Shopkeeper Assistant Wanted, Temporary.” The room smelled of lavender and the oak counters looked newly oiled. A fire in an iron stove sizzled in the background. Millie herself approached them as they entered. She had a cold sore at the side of her lip, and Jenny thought to suggest a paste of shooting star leaves, but sometimes helpful healing hints weren’t welcomed.
Ariyah’s cape camouflaged her pregnancy, but Millie noticed things and apparently wasn’t afraid to comment on what she saw. “With child, are we?” Millie wore wax to cover what looked like the residual of the pox on her face.
“We are. Today I’m looking for scarves. Oh, look, Jennie, that perfect hat has a perfect mauve color. It’s so divine, don’t you think? And there’s a yellow scarf that would bring out your green eyes.” Both were lovely.
Jennie lifted the silk. Ariyah led her toward a mirror as the door opened, and in walked a woman wearing the duplicate of what Jennie had just wrapped round her neck and tucked in as a hint of yellow at her throat. In the mirror, she saw Millie stiffen at the sight of the woman.
“Someone else loves that scarf,” Ariyah leaned in to whisper. “But I think it looks better on you.”
“I’m just ogling, remember.”
“I’m afraid we have nothing to suit your interests,” Millie said to the newcomer, who Jennie peered at more carefully. But hasn’t the woman shopped here before? She owns the yellow scarf.
“Oh. I was certain my . . . fiancé mentioned where he’d purchased this.” She fingered the butter-yellow accessory. “I was looking for a matching reticule.”
Jennie noticed a purse meeting that description with yellow sequins next to the display of scarves and started to point to it, but Millie stepped between her and the customer. As she did, Jennie recognized the girl—Miss Priscilla.
“We have nothing like that. I’m sure your fiancé is mistaken that he purchased anything here.”
She mocked the word “fiancé,” and for a moment Jennie wondered if Charles might be the purchasing man. A weight pressed against her breast.
“I think it best if you leave,” Millie said.
Miss Priscilla’s face blushed the color of a ripe tomato and one of her eyebrows twitched. In the bright light of the shop, compared to the darkness of the house she lived in, Miss Priscilla appeared much younger. A part of Jennie relished ogling this soiled dove who had left tracks over the now cold field of her marriage. She deserved disdain, didn’t she?
It isn’t Miss Priscilla’s fault.
“I think this reticule would be a perfect match.” Jennie walked around Millie and held up the beaded purse by its gold chain.
Miss Priscilla’s eyes expanded in recognition, her mouth opened to an O. “Yes, that would be it,” she said as she regained composure and accepted the purse.
Millie grabbed it. “It’s not for sale.”
Miss Priscilla stepped back as though slapped, and she had been, by words. Jennie knew how that felt.
“Will you sell it—to me?” Jennie said.
Millie straightened her shou
lders, glaring as she turned. “Of course.” She marched toward the counter, purse in hand.
Miss Priscilla edged toward the door.
“I hadn’t planned to purchase,” Jennie said, raising her voice, handing Millie coins. In fact, buying the purse put quite a hole in her budget. “But it’s the perfect match to Miss Priscilla’s scarf.”
Miss Priscilla stopped, her back to them. Millie hesitated, looking from Jennie to Ariyah. Then she took the money and thrust the purse toward Jennie, unwrapped.
Jennie fast-walked to touch the shoulder of Miss Priscilla, who turned. “Merry Christmas. And may the spirit of the Christ child bless you today, all year long, and forever.”
Tears welled in her brown eyes, the single feather in her small-brimmed hat bobbed. “Thank you.” Her eyes met Jennie’s, then she fingered the sequins. “Thank you very much.”
“Well, I never,” Millie huffed after Miss Priscilla departed. “Do you know what kind of woman she is? She’s of a class that shouldn’t even be in a fine establishment like mine.” Millie twisted her hands as though she washed them without water.
“But why not? Can’t you use the sales?” Ariyah nodded to Jennie’s question.
“Yes. But she’s, well . . .” She leaned into the women. “She’s a prostitute. I simply can’t condone the behavior of women like her.”
“You called her by name, Jennie.” Ariyah sounded puzzled.
“Yet you sell to the fiancé, the men these women . . .” Jennie struggled for the right word.
“Who can tell what men do?” Millie brushed her hands as though waving away a fly. “I know of these women. I see the adulterers leaving their . . . house on my way to work. It’s sinful, that’s exactly right.” She dropped her hands to her sides.
“Our Lord was not afraid to be seen with prostitutes,” Jennie said. “He made one of them a missionary, sending her out to tell others about him. You could do that here. Who knows what lives you might change for the better.” Her heart pounded. She should just keep quiet and leave. If Millie challenged her biblical views, she doubted she could respond.