That was all she needed, some wretched rumor that Charles Wilson was sweet on her. It was bad enough he came out to check on “milk production.” Milk production. The only production he had in mind had nothing to do with cow's milk but milking someone else for all they might be worth.
She scanned the crowd for her mother, glad for once that her height helped her see across heads to find the gray curls and pink cheeks. Mazy raised her chin, trying to catch her mother's eye, but she couldn't. Elizabeth was having maybe just a little too much fun, Mazy thought. After all, she was a woman nearly fifty. What did she think, laughing and clasping arms with that man anyway? Elizabeth fanned herself with her handkerchief as the little German leaned his head in as if to tell her a confidence. Her mother threw her head back and laughed. Why, Elizabeth might have a heart attack or something, with her age and her weight.
Mazy squinted. Had her mother been losing weight? Perhaps she was ill. She needed to take care of herself a little better.
Mazy spilled lemonade on her hand, apologized to the person she was handing the cup to, felt Charles Wilson press against her arm as he reached to serve someone else. She heard a woman say, “Isn't it lovely to see a man so helpful?” Mazy nodded, looked up in time to see Gus's hand on her mother's elbow as he wove her not toward her table but toward the outside door.
“It seems your mother's found a way to enjoy the evening,” Charles said. “Like mother, like daughter?” he said, raising one eyebrow.
“Yes,” Mazy said, placing a cup of eggnog firmly in his hands. “I could certainly use some fresh air.”
Esther and Esty's unveiling stunned Suzanne into silence. “You must say nothing,” Esther said.
“How many?” Seth asked finally.
“So far, six of them,” Esty said.
“We might have helped more, but each time…each time there was a change, a move from the boardinghouse, Mr. Powder…it set us back,” Esther said. “We had to find new routes, new places to get them to safety. Only short interruptions,” Esther soothed.
Suzanne pressed her fingers to her lips. “But how did you…what got you started?”
“When I saw what I had brought the Celestials into,” Esther said. “There were so many here, young girls, all being…used. I was sure God had not allowed me to be a part of something so vile. And then I felt he answered by showing what I could do that would make a difference. Be his hands in this place. If I had not come…” She cleared her throat. “Mei-Ling helps us, but she and A-He are fearful now too. Most girls are sickly, and then they're tossed aside like garbage, ravaged by dogs or tossed to the rivers. If we find them quickly, we get them well.”
“That's how I became involved,” Esty said.
“You don't make hats?”
“Oh. Yes. I do. We all work. But Esther thought she saw your friend Naomi. It was in an area not far from my shop, so Esther and I began working together. I have kept my eyes open for her. Today…1 thought I might have seen Naomi again. I have a back room where Esther brings medicine at night. When she works at the theater.”
“Sometimes, at the old boardinghouse, we had the stable to hide them. Esty took one girl by steamer to San Francisco, telling the captain that she was her servant, but it was to get her out, into Portland, Seattle, where she would have a better chance than with the Chinese leaders here. And there have been others. We give them money and hope.”
“So it is both costly and dangerous,” Suzanne said. “And my moving about. Moving us about. It disrupted—”
“You didn't know,” Esther said. “There is no end to the suffering. No end. But nothing is impossible with God.”
Suzanne couldn't seem to concentrate. She wanted to be a part of what Esther was about, wasn't sure how she could be. And then she found herself thinking only of Seth. He'd been so silent throughout this revelation.
Seth left then, to attend to his affairs, he said. Suzanne hadn't been brave enough to ask which ones. She hoped he had business details to wrap up before he committed to what Esther proposed. She pushed aside the thoughts that his gambling that everyone whispered about was still a part of his life. It was none of her business, she'd decided. He'd been sworn to secrecy whether he participated or not. She was sure he'd honor that.
Seth told her some days later that mistletoe still hung in the hallway. She fluttered her hands at her throat, must have blushed. “I hung it there myself,” he said.
“Where exactly?” she said. “So I can avoid it.”
“Hmmm,” he said. “That's one request I'll only partially comply with. Its right here,” he said and moved her shoulders so she stood in an airy place she knew to be the archway between the parlor and the hall. And then he'd kissed her.
She knew he would. And yet the startle of it, the sweetness of his lips on hers sent tingles to her toes. His mustache pricked against her upper lip. The kiss was so different from Zane Randolphs kiss to her. She shivered with the thought. It was more as Bryce's had been, and she felt herself sink in.
“I could not resist, dear lady,” Seth whispered. “Forgive me.”
“You'll think me a brazen woman if I don't.” She stepped back, straightened the cane at her wrist.
“Think of you as brazen? Never. Oops!” Seth said, stepping away. “Blasted cats. Where did that one come from?” Suzanne giggled. Seth cleared his throat. “Did you know that mistletoe grows wild in the oaks in Oregon? It's true,” he said when she shook her head no. “It's true.” His voice changed, the words coming deeper and more slowly. “I thank the good Lord for giving us mistletoe, or I might never have found the courage to kiss you, Suzanne Cullver.”
“You, lacking courage?” she said. She made herself seek his eyes, could feel the softness of his breath as he moved closer again. She felt herself aching to stay in the comfort of his chest, his arms—
“There's certainly no courage in taking advantage of a blind woman,” Sterling Powder said from the hall.
Suzanne felt Seth move back from her as her hands fluttered at the lace ruffle at her hips and smoothed the silk at her throat.
“Holiday celebration,” Seth said.
“Indeed,” Sterling Powder said. Then to Suzanne Sterling said, “I believe the time has come for me to submit my notice of intent to leave. I realize this is not the best of times, during a celebration. However, I've found it difficult to speak with you of late, you being so occupied.”
“Leave? But why?” Suzanne asked. “Haven't you enjoyed your work? The boys? Please dont go.” She reached out for his arm, waved in the air before her. “Claytons made such progress. Shall I pay you more? Is that it then?”
“The money is sufficient,” he'd snapped. Then more calmly added, “I simply find my teaching approach challenged by the many intrusions and distractions the boys must endure. Clayton needs consistency. A regimen that must be honored daily.”
“You're referring to me,” Seth asked.
“No, no,” Suzanne said. “Its the move and all. We're just getting settled in, Mr. Powder. And the holidays have distracted. Things will be more orderly now,” Suzanne said. “I promise.”
“I fear you will always seek distractions,” Sterling Powder said. “There was no need for this new home. No need for disorder to present itself. People with…impairments need everyday patterns and habits. That concept appears to challenge you, Mrs. Cullver.”
“Maybe it's all those cats around that distract,” Seth said.
“The boys like them. Master Clayton calms when he pets the calico, and his words come more easily then, not that a man of your experience would understand. He'll miss them, I'm sure, now that the dog has abandoned you. Regretful, that. His leaving and now mine are just trials you'll have to bear,” Sterling said. “But fortunately, you have good help, and you do seem to appreciate the challenge of change.”
Suzanne felt herself blush with the truth of his words. He just couldn't leave, not now, not when the boy was at the threshold. She had to do something to change his m
ind. Suzanne felt the old irritation, anxiety, and frustration that once drove people from her just when she wanted their help. Had she somehow done that now? She'd have to concentrate.
“We can work something out,” Seth said.
“What?” she said. “I'm sorry. I wasn't paying attention.”
“And therein lies the problem,” Sterling Powder said, sounding as firm as a final curtain.
“What is the problem?” Suzanne said. “Tell me and I'll fix it.”
“You're not the problem, is all I'm saying,” Seth said.
“And you would know, sir, about the training and teaching of young men without speech?” Sterling Powder challenged. “I think not.” “I know a rude speaker when I meet one,” Seth said. “Stop it!” Suzanne said, her hands to her ears. “Just stop it. Please.” “If my being here is a problem, Suzanne, I'll just be heading out.
Never intended any disruption in routine,” Seth said. With a sinking feeling, she heard him usher himself out.
Tipton shivered, wiped her face of the spew she'd just deposited in the brass spittoon in front of her. She couldn't remember ever feeling so miserable. She leaned back against the wainscoting, pushed a mildewed pillow beneath her back, then pulled her legs up under her on the narrow cot. She sipped a canteen of water, hoping it would stay down.
She could do laundry. She'd have competition from the Chinese, that was sure. But she'd had that back in Shasta City, too. Some miners wanted only white women to do their wash. How odd that was, when she thought of it. What possible difference could one's skin color have on the cleanliness of a shirt?
She leaned forward, upchucked again.
Still, lifting the hot water, hauling the heavy loads of boiled shirts back to their owners, all would take a toll on her small frame. But as she huddled in the small cabin of the steamer making its way from Crescent City to San Francisco, it was the only thing she could think of doing. She would have to do the only thing she knew how. She had all she needed. Wasn't that what Tyrellie told her? He'd added something about God giving her resources enough to serve others, but surely God would want her to take care of herself first.
She'd been ill through most of the voyage, the seas being heavy with the storm. Or had it been sickness that came to those carrying an infant? There was the real truth she had to face, the real reason she couldn't wash clothes for long.
She tried to calculate how much time she had. Chita said it took nine months, and she'd suspected a pregnancy for at least two, and it had been two more since Chita had been sworn to secrecy. That meant—she counted on her fingers—May She could perhaps do laundry through March. After that she would have to find other work and a place to birth her baby. She'd have to worry about getting food enough, a doctor or midwife who could help… Tipton heard her breathing change, the rapid intake of breath. Her fingers started to tingle. No! She had to stay here, not go away. That was how she'd gotten in this condition, pretending not to know or feel, not wanting to upset Nehemiah, and so she'd allowed herself to drift away inside his passion for her, disappeared inside compliance.
She couldn't afford that now, couldn't risk going away or using precious strength worrying over her hand growing numb. Elizabeth had said she'd stop doing that to herself when she understood what disappearing took from her, when she found a better way to get what she wanted.
What did she want? She'd left a safe, warm hearth to huddle in a damp ships cabin, and she'd be deposited in the morning on the wharf in a January chill. All she had to do to be warm was get back on and go home. Maybe Nehemiah would follow her. Was that what this was about? To be pursued, wanted? To have the happy reunion she could never have with her mother? With the fiancé who had died? She heard a rat scurry in the corner. No. She didn't want Nehemiah to follow or find her. She wanted to do this on her own.
This baby was really Tyrellie s and hers, the baby they would have had. She still had his memory, his tender advice ringing in her ears to help her raise it. She didn't need anyone else. Not her mother's love, not her brother's wretched approval, not her husband's fatherly protection. She needed none of it. And if she was truthful—and she was learning to be—her baby would provide her with all she needed: love enough, approval enough, and even protection enough. After all, who would harm a woman bearing a child? Who would harm a mother with an infant at her breast?
Tipton smiled and rubbed her stomach. This wasn't so bad. A baby was such a little thing to give so much, but that was what a baby did: mind its mother s mind, keep its mother happy so its mother would be sure its little frame would grow and learn and change. This baby was totally dependent on her. Just her. She sipped some water. It stayed down. They'd dock before long. She wouldn't be seasick again. She'd be fine. She was having a baby. She didn't need anything more.
“Your rotten jack,” Matthew said, jabbing his finger toward Ruth, “almost lost us the whole herd.”
“What are you talking about?” Ruth sat up, wiped at her eyes. She must have fallen asleep beside Jessie. She turned out of habit to see if the small chest still raised and lowered itself. It did. Then she gave her attention to the madman pacing the room before her.
“That cussed Carmine just kicked off the corral panels, that's what he did. Crazy floating eye should have told us to let that…that…tarnal jack stay where he was.” Matthew kicked at the ash tin set beside the hearth. A dusting of snow drifted up.
Ruth had never seen him like this. She felt her stomach tense, her shoulders stiffen. She looked at Lura, busy darning a sock. Neither she nor his sister seemed to notice.
“He ran around, stomping at the poles that held the mares,” Matthew said. “Tarnal thing!”
Ruth watched Matthew tug at his gloves, hunch his shoulders up, yank at one that resisted his hands. That irritated him more. He gritted his teeth, jerked, then threw the snow-wet glove across the room.
He was having a tantrum, for heavens sake. She'd never seen him like this, a huge bear marauding around the room, stomping and snarling. Why, he'd scare Jessie if she woke. Sarah huddled off to the side casting furtive glances at Ruth. Mariah yawned.
“Got them all riled. Storm wasn't enough to agitate them. No, your jack had to add his two eagles to the fray.” He stopped, looked at Ruth as though she'd just shown up from nowhere. His shoulders dropped. “How is she?” He nodded toward Jessie.
“She's…the same.”
“Maybe better give her some of that rum and add honey and the glycerin Doc McCully gave me. Ma, you got honey, don't you?”
“Traded some with a pair of Rogues,” Lura said. “They use fire to burn out the bee trees, did I tell you that? I've got a mind to be trying that myself, come summer.”
They mixed the ingredients, and Ruth gave her child small sips. Jessie coughed from the smoky room and begged to be held, which Ruth did. She patted the girl's hands in her own, saying words to both soothe her daughter's soul and bring some settling to her own.
“Just give the child the broth, some stew broth,” Lura said. “Not the meat or nothing.”
“I know,” Ruth answered. Even then she wondered why she couldn't just accept what someone told her, without assuming they were making a correction.
Lura made up a new batch of onion juice, heated it, and insisted it would make the child sweat. “That's what'll break this new fever, you ask me,” she said.
Ruth had nothing to lose. She dribbled the strong-smelling liquid into Jessie's mouth. The child did not resist. Her eyes fluttered some as she opened them. She even attempted a smile when Ruth brushed the damp hair behind her ears. “You'll be all right,” she told her daughter, whispering it as a prayer. “You'll be all right.”
“Where is Carmine now?” Ruth asked, hoping enough time had elapsed for Matthew to talk rationally about the jack.
“Dead, I hope.”
“Well, of course he's red,” his mother chastised. “She didn't ask you what color he was but where he was.”
Matthew swatted at his felt hat,
brushed off the snow melting from it as he stood before the hearth. “Ma. I said I hoped he was dead, not red. Your hearings getting worse every day.” He slowed his pace, spoke louder.
“You mumble,” Lura said, laying the socks down and picking up a venison ham bone. She started to slice.
“Why didnt you get the boys to help catch him?” Ruth asked.
“Oh, they did.” He brushed the water from his coat, hung it on a wall peg near the stove. The smell of wet wool filled the room. His shoulders sagged, and he took a deep breath. Tension eased out as he exhaled. “They did the best they could with that…beast.”
He had immense patience, Ruth had always thought. At least with people. But animals and objects, he apparently got upset with them. Or maybe it was just this being cooped up, not being able to make any real progress through these winter months. It was too bad the school term got cancelled because a Negro child had enrolled. Except for this current storm, it would have been the perfect January for the children to go to school.
“The boys got the mares back in,” Matthew continued. “But that Carmine would have nothing to do with the corral. He just ran back and forth, seducing them, I swear. Talking to ‘em like he had things worth saying. Ewalds all riled up too. Don't know what's gotten into them.”
“Maybe it's the weather,” Ruth said. She rubbed at her arms to warm them. Rain pelted the shake roof, but it sounded like ice when it struck. “I'll go out in a bit to see if I can lure him in.”
“Probably freeze good tonight, from the feel of it. Bucket handle is already iced up. Rope is fat as a well-fed snake. Which is why I don't want those mares out there. Be safer for them closer to the lean-to where we can at least keep the feed dry,” Matthew told her.
“You did well to get it built when you did,” Ruth said. Matthew nodded.
“Hopefully the sun'll come out in the morning and melt this all away, and your crazy mule will settle down.”
“Have some coffee,” Mariah told him, handing her brother a mug.