The Measure of a Lady

  ‘‘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.

  Rachel had the drayman unload her barrel and blankets. She then opened the barrel’s valve and began to saturate the blankets with the vile-smelling vinegar.

  Men quickly lined up next to them, and Selma distributed the blankets. The men covered as many roofs as they could.

  A rider on a fine black stallion charged down the street as if the mud were of no consequence. Rachel’s breath caught in her throat. It was Lissa, riding astride in trousers and a flannel shirt, her hair billowing out behind her.

  ‘‘Quick,’’ she shouted. ‘‘We need men to help pull down some buildings.’’

  Several men stepped forward and she gave them directions.

  ‘‘Rachel,’’ she yelled.

  Rachel straightened.

  ‘‘I’ve sent some of the wounded over to my house. It’s big and we have plenty of room. But I need someone to see to them until I can get there. Will you go?’’

  To her house? The place that she lived in . . . with her lover?
>
  ‘‘If your enemy hungers, feed him; If he thirsts, give him drink.’’

  Taking a deep breath, Rachel nodded. ‘‘I will go, but I don’t know where you live.’’

  ‘‘I do,’’ Selma said.

  Lissa pulled up next to them.

  ‘‘Where are you off to?’’ Rachel asked.

  ‘‘I’m going to use my horse to help pull some buildings down.’’

  ‘‘What good will that do?’’

  An explosion shook the ground. Lissa’s horse danced, then stilled under its master’s tight control.

  ‘‘If there are no buildings in the fire’s path, it should burn itself out,’’ Lissa explained.

  ‘‘Will that work?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know. I hope so.’’

  ‘‘Have you seen Michael?’’

  ‘‘Not yet.’’

  Another explosion rent the air.

  Lissa fought again with her mount. ‘‘I have to go.’’

  She touched her horse’s flanks and started forward.

  The verses God had long since planted in Rachel’s heart poured forth within her soul, and she could no more ignore them than she could keep herself from breathing.

  ‘‘If anyone has a complaint against another; even as Christ forgave you, so you also must do.’’

  ‘‘Lissa?’’ Rachel yelled.

  Her sister reined in and turned.

  ‘‘Be careful?’’

  A bittersweet expression crossed Lissa’s face. ‘‘I will if you will.’’

  And then she was gone.

  chapter 24

  Rachel had never seen a more curious structure.

  She was accustomed to straight lines and even surfaces. The columns and alcoves jutting out at various angles from Lissa’s house fascinated her.

  She’d heard the home had been constructed with timbers of ships that had run aground, but as it was painted in bright yellow, she couldn’t tell. The windows, doors, and roof line had been adorned with whimsically carved trim painted in a contrasting blue.

  A roomy verandah with an ornate balustrade surrounded the entire manor. Upon it lay a dozen men in various states of distress. She quickened her pace.

  ‘‘Gentlemen, help is here,’’ she said, climbing the wide plank steps. ‘‘I am Miss Van Buren, and this is Miss Johnson.’’

  With a sweep of her gaze, she took in a mélange of singed beards, blistered faces, swollen hands, and horror-stricken eyes. The smell of burnt flesh clogged her nose. Maintaining a calm, ordinary demeanor took some doing.

  ‘‘Miss Johnson and I will put some poultices together and see if we can make you more comfortable. But first, something to drink.’’

  ‘‘Whiskey?’’

  The pathetically hopeful note in the whispered question tore at her heartstrings. ‘‘We will save that for those who need it the most,’’ she offered gently then followed Selma through the door and into the parlor.

  Her step faltered. The furniture was richly carved and covered in blue and gold brocatelle. Fabric of the same design framed windows that faced the street, along with an under curtain of richly embroidered lace.

  A pier mirror in a gilt frame hung above an impressive fireplace with a white marble mantel. Two chandeliers decorated with cupids hung from the ceiling.

  ‘‘We’ll get the floor filthy,’’ Selma said, lowering her voice to a whisper.

  Rachel gave her a little push. ‘‘Go on. Let’s find the kitchen.’’

  The kitchen was not as grandly furnished as the parlor, but it was big, functional, and well equipped. Herbs and spices contained in bottles and pouches lined a shelf, while others hung drying from the ceiling.

  She glanced out the back window. ‘‘Oh, Selma, look. A water pump. Right in the yard.’’

  ‘‘Praise the heavens, let’s go.’’

  Selma pumped and Rachel rotated the buckets until they had four filled. Once inside, Selma set the water to boiling; Rachel raided the storeroom.

  ‘‘I found lettuce, cucumbers, and potatoes,’’ she said, returning to the kitchen.

  ‘‘Oh, thank goodness.’’

  Rachel placed them on the table. ‘‘As soon as you get the lettuce boiling, would you mind slicing these up? I’ll see what I can find for makeshift pallets and bandages.’’

  Lissa’s bedroom was even bigger than the parlor and just as ornately decorated. A chaise lounge built for two. A gilded toilet table.

  Oversized oriental pillows bunched up in an octagonal alcove, their rich fabrics embroidered with fine gold threads.

  The focal point, without question, though, was the large bedstead curtained in white linen. The gilded and ornately carved piece spoke of opulence and decadence.

  She felt small and intrusive. But the men outside were in a bad way and needed some creature comforts. She would just open the camphor trunk sitting in the corner, grab whatever blankets or calicos lay on top, and leave.

  A red satin gown lay on top. She peeked underneath it. Sapphire brocade. Under that, gold silk.

  Sumner’s things. Lissa’s unmentionables. Unmentionables the likes of which were made for tantalizing, not for hiding under. Gossamer. Feathers. Sheer white lace trimmed with red ribbon. Red.

  At the bottom were the blankets and calicos. She gingerly tried to remove them without displacing the clothing on top.

  Then she all but ran back to the sanctuary of the kitchen. Selma had a tray laden with sliced cucumbers, sliced potatoes, a mug, and a bottle of whiskey.

  Rachel glanced at her.

  ‘‘It’ll help dull the pain. Now go on.’’

  Laying down the linens and her misgivings, Rachel picked up the tray, moved to the porch, and found two other women quietly conversing with the men.

  The first woman straightened. She had short curly black hair and a wide forehead, worry lines marring its surface. ‘‘You Miss Van Buren?’’

  Rachel nodded.

  ‘‘I’m Josephine, but everyone calls me Jo.’’ She indicated her companion. ‘‘This here is Annie.’’

  Annie was a tall woman with hair parted down the middle and slicked back into a bun. ‘‘Lissa sent us. She thought you could use some help.’’

  Every lesson, every sermon, every book had drilled into Rachel that these women were the antithesis of all that was good and righteous. That to consort with them would make her one of them.

  Yet the tighter she tried to hold on to those teachings, the more troubled her spirit became. Every time she opened her Bible of late, she read about grace, mercy, forgiveness. She read about bringing others to Him through acts of service and kindness and love.

  Why, she’d worked with Selma for months and had experienced no ill effects.

  And Lissa. Lissa may have been living a life of sin, but she wasn’t evil. She was certainly acting outside of God’s will, but did that make her irredeemable? Lost forever? And if it did, then what was the point of Christ dying on the cross?

  A man moaned, and all thoughts but one left Rachel’s mind in an instant. She looked at the two women, both of them clearly torn between concern for the men and apprehension over being tossed off the porch.

  ‘‘Indeed I do need some help,’’ Rachel said. ‘‘Have you been here long enough to examine the patients?’’

  Their rigid postures relaxed.

  ‘‘Not all of ’em,’’ Josephine said. ‘‘But Bart here is burnt pretty bad.’’

  ‘‘Well, I have some cucumbers and raw potatoes. They should feel cool to the skin and help with the swelling.’’

  ‘‘Jo? Is that you? You have some whiskey fer me?’’ The voice came from the opposite end of the porch.

  ‘‘It’s me, Patrick. Just hold on a minute and let me get organized.’’

  ‘‘What are your full names?’’ Rachel asked.

  The girls looked at each other.

  ‘‘I’m Josephine Bellingham.’’

  ‘‘And I’m Annie Holmes.’’

  ‘‘Gentlem
en?’’ Rachel called. ‘‘I will not have these ladies addressed with such familiarity. Josephine’s name is Miss Bellingham and Annie’s name is Miss Holmes. Do I have your cooperation?’’

  ‘‘Miss Bellingham?’’ It was the same voice as before. ‘‘You have some whiskey fer me?’’

  Jo smiled. ‘‘Yes, Patrick. I have some whiskey. But nobody gets anything unless Miss Van Buren gives the say-so.’’

  The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur. Selma and Annie took over the kitchen, while Rachel and Josephine tended to the men.

  All twelve patients were conscious. Those with the most superficial looking burns tended to be more agitated and uncomfortable than the ones with severe burns.

  The man that worried Rachel most made no complaints at all. His hands looked as if they’d been shredded. His head was just one big hot air balloon—puffed up and unnaturally round. His singed hair and beard curled up like snakes. His swollen lips had grown to three times their normal size.

  Josephine carefully applied lard to his hands, then wrapped them with strips of cotton torn from one of Lissa’s calicos. ‘‘Now don’t you worry about a thing, Bart. I’m gonna have you fixed up good as new.’’

  Dull eyes stared back at her, pupils so big and black his irises could not even be seen.

  ‘‘What would you think about letting me shave off that ol’ beard o’ yours?’’ she asked. ‘‘I been secretly wonderin’ if you’re hiding dimples under there, and now’s my chance to find out.’’

  She kept up her monologue, cutting his shirt off his body as she examined him further for burns. The smell must have been choking her, but she gave no indication of such. Just worked and cared for Bart, ministering to his spirit as much as his wounds.

  Miss Josephine Bellingham was a good nurse. And nurses were in very short supply in this territory. Very short supply indeed.

  An inkling of an idea began to form. Rachel mulled it over as she moved from man to man. She applied poultices of apple slices for headaches, served up onion juice and honey for coughs, and patted lettuce swabs on any skin too bright or too pale.

  Before the dinner hour, five more women came to help and dozens more men came for treatment.

  The whiskey supply in Lissa’s storeroom turned out to be plentiful. Rachel allowed the women to administer it liberally, knowing it would dull the pain and induce amnesia for those who needed it.