The Measure of a Lady

  Bit by bit the history of the seven girls leaked out. One of them had been raised on a small Missouri farm working from dawn until dusk. She came west seeking a better life.

  Another one, a widow, had borrowed capital to set up a millinery shop in Massachusetts. The conditions of the loan were so severe she’d had to mortgage everything, including three dozen pair of underclothes. Her business had failed. So she had come west.

  Yet another was a Georgia slave, the daughter of a white man and a Haitian quadroon. She’d come west to escape slavery.

  Some had been accompanying loved ones on the trek to California, only to arrive orphaned or widowed. And hungry.

  All seeking a better life. All without food, money, and options.

  Rachel could not think of them anymore as women of ill repute.

  They were simply women. With worries and feelings and compassionate hearts.

  It was early evening when Lissa slogged up the steps of the verandah covered in mud from head to foot. ‘‘The fire is still burning, but it won’t spread any further.’’

  ‘‘Michael?’’ Rachel asked.

  ‘‘Is fine. Now, how are these boys?’’

  Relief poured through Rachel. She wanted to ask about Johnnie, but if he wasn’t here for treatment, then Lord willing, he was all right.

  Still, she’d ask as soon as she could manage a private word with Lissa.

  She watched her sister go from man to man, stopping to say a word, touch an arm, adjust a blanket. She spoke to each, knowing many by name. How could she manage to look elegant wearing trousers and half of the mud in San Francisco?

  Poise. Self-confidence. Grace. From where had it come?

  Lissa made a full circle before stopping in front of Rachel. ‘‘Do I look as bad as I smell?’’

  Rachel smiled. ‘‘Worse. Come on to the back and let’s find you something to eat.’’

  ‘‘I’m a mess.’’

  ‘‘We’ll take care of that, too.’’

  They walked through the parlor, only to be waylaid as Lissa made the rounds again, comforting the men strewn about the room.

  She didn’t so much as blink at the mess they’d made of her home.

  Rachel had covered the furniture as best she could, but many of the men’s wounds had festered, leaking fluids and saturating both the pallets and the rich brocatelle underneath.

  Lissa flashed a dimple, thanking a man named Sherman for inviting people to help themselves to his wine before they blew up his building.

  ‘‘Mr. O’Farrell took great pride over his selection of claret,’’ she said, ‘‘preening over his choice while Misters Hunt and Weston used their best efforts to remove an entire barrel of the cheapest kind.’’

  Whether the men were enlivened by her tale or from her obvious amusement over it, Rachel couldn’t surmise. But she marveled that anyone could draw a smile from them.

  A bittersweet emotion fell over her as she recognized bits of the old Lissa and bits of a new one.

  Young but brave. Brokenhearted but resilient. And filthier than any man in the room.

  They stepped into the kitchen, and Rachel carted buckets of water in from the back porch.

  ‘‘Tell us what has happened,’’ Rachel said.

  Lissa scratched her neck. ‘‘Everything on the east side of the Plaza is gone except for the Delmonico Restaurant at the corner of Clay. An entire side of Washington Street burnt to the ground, and many halls have been blackened and charred.’’

  All the girls gathered into the kitchen to hear Lissa’s news.

  ‘‘What stopped it?’’

  ‘‘Water-soaked blankets, bucket brigades, and blowing up or pulling down the houses in its path.’’ The dried mud on Lissa’s face had cracked around her eyes and forehead.

  Annie dragged a copper tub into the center of the room. Rachel began to fill it.

  ‘‘Some of the merchants on Washington refused to have their buildings blown up,’’ Lissa said.

  ‘‘What happened?’’

  She shrugged. ‘‘Nobody listened to them and blew their places up anyway.’’

  Selma took some water from the stove and added it to the tub.

  Lissa shoved the suspenders off her shoulders, untucked her shirt, and began to disrobe. ‘‘At the most critical point, though, hundreds of those rowdies just stood there and refused to so much as pick up a bucket unless they were paid ridiculous wages.’’

  Dropping her clothes in a heap around her ankles, she stepped into the tub and sunk into its heat.

  Rachel swallowed her shock. Never had she seen a woman completely unclothed before, but no one else seemed to notice, least of all Lissa.

  The girl dunked herself completely under, then after a moment of sloshing came up sputtering and scrubbing. Rachel grabbed some soap.

  A lull fell while Lissa rested against the rim of the tub and Rachel lathered her sister’s hair.

  ‘‘Oh,’’ Lissa moaned. ‘‘That feels so good. It’s been so long since you’ve done that for me.’’

  Rachel smiled. She’d not done it since Lissa was a child. A lifetime ago.

  ‘‘Did you see Johnnie?’’ Rachel asked.

  ‘‘He’s fine. Tired, but fine.’’

  Oh, thank you, Lord. ‘‘Did you tell him where I was?’’

  ‘‘I did. I don’t think he’ll make it by tonight, though. I imagine he’ll stay with the fire. Just in case.’’

  A jasmine scent wafted up from the soap. ‘‘Lean forward. It’s time to rinse.’’

  Lissa complied and Rachel poured fresh water over her. Someone handed Rachel a blanket. Lissa shoved the hair and water from her face, then rose.

  Rachel wrapped the blanket around her and helped her step out.

  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 som
e, 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?’’