Prologue
September 1867
On the Oregon Trail
Florence Caine
huddled near the campfire outside their wagon, one of over thirty that were
circled for the night. Winter rode the winds that had been blasting them for
the last few days. Their destination couldn’t come soon enough to suit her.
She brushed her
skirt with the palms of both hands trying to get rid of the ever-present dirt.
Why did I ever agree to Joshua’s plan? If she’d known all the dangers they
would face along the way, he would have had to make this journey without her …
if he kept insisting on going. Her husband’s adventurous spirit had first drawn
her to him, but she would have been happy to stay in Little Rock, Arkansas,
until they were old and gray. Instead, she finally yielded to his fairy-tale
vision—a new start in the West. The words had sounded romantic at the time, but
their brilliance had dulled in her memory.
Florence rubbed her chapped hands, trying to
help the warmth to go deeper. Her bones ached with the cold. After months of
traveling the plains through scorching heat and choking clouds of dust, she had
welcomed the cooler temperatures when they crossed the Rocky
Mountains. That respite was the only thing she liked about the
treacherous route they had to take. Because of the steep trail that often
disappeared among the rocks and tree roots, they had dumped many items the men
thought weren’t essential.
Huh. As if men understood the desires of
a woman’s heart and what brought her comfort. The tinkling and crashing of her
precious bone china from England
breaking into a million pieces as the crate tumbled down the hill still haunted
her dreams.
Florence
kept many of her favorite things when they traveled from Little
Rock to Independence,
Missouri, where the wagon trains
started their journeys. She had struggled with what to sell to lighten the load
before they left. The one piece of furniture she’d been allowed to keep, her
grandmother’s small rosewood secretary desk, had probably been used as wood to
stoke some other traveler’s fire out there on the prairie where trees were so
widely scattered. When they had to dump the treasure, a piece of her heart went
with it. She’d twisted on the wagon seat and gazed at the forlorn piece until
it was just a speck on the empty horizon. Joshua had promised there would be
other secretaries, but that didn’t matter anymore. She squeezed her eyes tight,
trying to force the pictures out of her mind. Regrets attacked her like the
plague.
More than the
journey sapped her strength. She doubted there would be the proverbial pot of
gold at the end of their travels. No promised land for her, because what she
really wanted, a child of her own, wouldn’t be found in the greener pastures of
the untamed wilderness.
Clutching her
arms tightly across her chest, she forced her thoughts even farther back, all
the way to Arkansas.
Their white house with the green shutters nestled between tall trees that
sheltered them from the summer heat and kept the cold winds at bay. She
remembered the times the two of them had sat before the fire—she knitting or
sewing while Joshua read aloud to her from one of their favorite books. Or he
might be poring over one of the many newspapers he often brought home after
work. Now for so many months, they hadn’t heard any news except whatever they
could glean at the infrequent stops along the Oregon Trail
or from the few riders who passed the wagon train. Sometimes the men stopped to
share a meal and spin yarns for the ones on the journey.
She had no idea
how much of their information was even true. But the men hung on to their every
word. Loneliness for family and the desire to know what was going on back East
ate at her.
A shiver swept
from the top of Florence’s
head and didn’t miss a single part of her body on its way to her feet. Even
with multiple layers of woolen hosiery, her toes felt like ice. She’d often
worried that one of them would break off if she stubbed it. She yearned for the
snug house where never a single cold breeze seeped inside. Would she ever feel
warm again?
She glanced
around the clearing, hoping Joshua would soon return to their campsite. If not,
dinner would be overcooked or cold. Sick of stew that had been made from
rabbits or squirrels these last two weeks, she longed for fried chicken or a
good pot roast with plenty of fresh vegetables. At least the wagon master
assured them they were no more than a three-days’ journey from Oregon City.
Taking a deep breath, she decided she could last three more days. But not one
minute more.
Strong arms slid
around her waist. Florence
jumped, then leaned back against her husband’s solid chest. His warmth
surrounded her, and she breathed deeply of his unique musky scent mixed with
the freshness of the outdoors.
“What were you
thinking about?” Joshua’s breath gave her neck a delicious tickle.
“That our journey
will soon be over.”
She could hardly
wait to be in a real house with privacy. She had never felt comfortable knowing
that people in nearby wagons could hear most of what went on in theirs, and she
knew more than she ever wanted to know about some of the families on the train.
She moved slightly away from him, but missed the warmth he exuded. Suddenly an
inexplicable sense of oppression or impending disaster gave her more of a chill
than the cold wind. This time the shivers shook her whole body.
He turned her in
his arms, gently held her against his chest, then propped his chin on top of
her head. “I know how hard this has been on you, Flory.”
He didn’t often
use the pet name he gave her while they courted. The familiarity warmed her
heart for a moment.
“You’re just skin
and bones, but soon we’ll be in the promised land, and I’ll make sure you have
everything you’ve ever wanted.”
Words spoken with
such conviction that they almost melted her heart … almost, but the strange
cold dread wouldn’t depart.
She pulled away
and stared up into his eyes, basking in the intense love shining in them.
“You’re all I’ve ever wanted.” That wasn’t exactly true, but she wouldn’t
mention their inability to conceive a child. No use bringing that hurt to his eyes.
“So what did Overton have to say to the men tonight?”
“Not all the men
were there. Angus McKenna wasn’t. Neither was the doctor.”
A stab of
jealousy jolted through her as she realized this could mean only one thing.
Lenora McKenna was in labor. Florence
stuffed her feelings of inadequacy and envy deep inside and tried to replace
them with concern for Lenora. The poor woman had ridden on a pallet in the back
of the McKenna wagon for about three weeks. She was actually the reason they
took the easier, but longer, Barlow Cutoff instead of crossing the Dalles. The wagon train wouldn’t continue
on to Ft. Vancouver as originally planned. But the
wagon master assured them plenty of land awaited near Oregon City.
No one but her minded the change. At least, no one complained, and she didn’t
voice her feelings about prolonging her time on the hard wagon seat. No use
letting anyone else know how she really felt. No one would care.
“Should I go see
if I can help?” Florence
really didn’t want to, but she didn’t want Joshua to see the ugly side of her
personality. She didn’t want him to think less of her.
Thunder’s deep
rumble in the clouds hovering low above the wagon bounced against the
surrounding mountains and back. Lightning shot jagged fingers above them, raising
the hairs on her arms. She had never liked storms, even from the inside of
their house. Out here in the open was far worse.
Joshua hugged her
close again. “I think a couple of the women who’ve … had children … are there
with the doctor.” He dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “No need for you to
go. The wagon would be too crowded.”
He didn’t mean
the words to hurt her, but her greatest shame was her inability to give him
children. She had watched Joshua as he enjoyed interacting with the various youngsters
on the wagon train. He really had a way with them, and they often gathered
around him when they were camped, listening intently while he regaled them with
wild tales.
He had told her
it didn’t matter to him that they didn’t have children, but that inability
mattered to her … more than anything else in the world. What kind of woman am
I? Ten years of marriage should have brought several babies into their family.
Every other couple they knew had several by the time they had been married as
long as she and Joshua.
She slid from his
arms and bent to stir the bubbling stew, hoping he wouldn’t notice how his
words bothered her. Without turning her head, she gritted her teeth. “Hungry?”
His melodious
laughter, which always stirred her heart, bounced across the clearing, and some
of their neighbors glanced toward them. “That’s a foolish question, woman. When
have I ever turned away from food … especially yours?” He patted his flat
stomach for emphasis.
Florence went to the back of their wagon and
withdrew two spoons and crockery bowls before ladling the hot soup into them.
She had already cut the hot-water cornbread she baked in her cast-iron skillet
over the coals, so she grabbed a couple of pieces. They sat on the split log
bench they carried in their wagon and set out at each campsite.
Joshua took her
hand and bowed his head. “Lord, we thank you for your provision during this
journey … and especially for tonight’s meal. Bless these hands that prepared
this food for us.” He lifted her hand and pressed a soft kiss to the back of
it. “And Lord … please be with the McKennas tonight.”
His words brought
a picture into her mind, of him caring for her while she was in labor with
their child. She needed his tenderness, but that was one kind she’d never have.
She swallowed the lump that formed in her throat and blinked back the tears.
Since the McKenna
wagon was at the far side of the circled wagons, Florence hadn’t heard many of the sounds of
the labor. Occasionally, a high shrill cry rose above the cacophony that
divided them, announcing Mrs. McKenna’s agony. Just that faint sound made Florence’s stomach
muscles clench. She wouldn’t relish going through that kind of pain, but the
reward … Oh, yes, she would welcome it to have a child.
Her stomach
growled and twisted. Hunger had dogged her the last few weeks as the food
dwindled. They dove into their bowls, and she savored the stew which contained
the remnants of the shriveled carrots and potatoes they’d bought at Fort Hall,
the last place they had stopped that sold food to the wagon train. She wasn’t
sure what she would cook when this pot of stew was gone, but they should have
enough to eat for a couple of days, maybe three if they were careful. At least
the cold air would keep it from spoiling. Hopefully by then, they’d be at the
settlement.
Joshua cleared
his throat. “By the way, Overton mentioned that the impending birth might delay
our departure tomorrow.” Then he shoveled another spoonful of stew into his
mouth, grinning as he closed his eyes and relished the taste. A habit he’d
formed soon after they married.
Florence’s food turned bitter in her mouth.
She rubbed her hand across her barren belly where her empty womb mocked her. A
few tears leaked from her eyes. Why had God chosen not to fulfill her desire to
be a mother? And this news was most unwelcome. She might go mad with the delay.
Another flash of
lightning, followed by a loud burst of thunder, opened the brooding clouds.
Cold rain sprinkled down on them, then gradually grew in intensity. They scrambled
to gather their belongings and thrust them into the wagon. Last she covered the
stew pot and hung it at the edge of the wagon bed. Then they clambered under
the protection of their canvas roof. At least the rain kept Joshua from seeing
the tears, which would upset him. He tried so hard to make her happy through
their arduous journey.
Long after her
husband’s comforting snores filled the enclosure, Florence laid awake, listening to the storm
and imagining how she would feel holding her child to her breast. Lullabies
filled these daydreams, and her fingers could almost feel the velvety softness
of a sweet cheek and silky curls. She wondered if her babies would have blonde
hair like hers or the rich brown of Joshua’s.
Once again, tears
leaked from the corners of her eyes. She carefully brushed them away and willed
herself to fall asleep and squash the thoughts that plagued her. Just before
her eyes closed, a light appeared at the opening of the wagon. Florence slid their
Wedding Ring quilt up to her chin and sat up, but Joshua didn’t stir.
Reverend Knowles
stood in the glow of the lantern, water dripping from the brim of his floppy
felt hat. “I’m sorry to bother you folks, but I’m asking everyone to pray for
the McKennas. She’s having a hard time … and it’s difficult for him, too.”
“Of course, we’ll
pray.”
Florence whispered the words so she wouldn’t
awaken Joshua. He had been really tired lately. She could keep a prayer vigil
throughout the night because she knew she wouldn’t sleep with the storm raging
around them. For hours she whispered petitions for Lenora McKenna, interspersed
with occasional prayers for a child of her own. She knew it was selfish, but
since so many people were praying to the Almighty right now, maybe He would
answer her personal request as well.
“Noooooooo!”
The screaming
wail that reverberated all around the clearing broke through Florence’s slumber, jerking her wide awake.
Nothing like the weak sounds she’d heard earlier, and the voice was too deep to
be a woman’s. She shook her head and glanced out the opening to the soft,
predawn light. Evidently, she had fallen asleep, but she didn’t feel rested.
Joshua stirred
beside her. “What was that?”
“I’m not sure.”
She sat up and clutched the quilt close to her chest. “It almost sounded like a
wounded animal … but not quite.”
He started
pulling on his trousers. “I’m going to see what’s going on.” He kissed her on
her nose. “Don’t leave the wagon until I get back and tell you it’s safe. You
hear?”
She nodded.
He leaned to give
her one of his heart-melting kisses. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
Florence didn’t want anything to happen to
him either, but he wouldn’t appreciate her asking him to stay with her and let
the other men take care of things. After he jumped down from the wagon, she
stretched a sheet of canvas across the opening and started to dress for the
day.
Joshua loved her
so much. Her father had never kissed her mother in front of anyone, even the
children. But Joshua showed her how much he loved her no matter who was around.
Why wasn’t his love enough for her? If only that love would produce a child.
God must be tired
of hearing all her petitions for a baby. But just as Rachel in the Bible kept
telling God that without a child she would die, Florence would continue begging Him for one,
until she had no breath.
She slid the
covering from the opening and peeked out. Sunrise
lit the area with a golden glow. Everything looked new and fresh after the rain
washed away the dust. Even the bare branches of the trees glistened with
diamond-like drops clinging to the bark.
Joshua hurried
across the circle toward their wagon. He was deep in conversation with Overton
Johnson. Even from here, she recognized the seriousness that puckered both of
their brows. She wondered what they were discussing so intently.
A few feet from
the wagon, her husband glanced up and waved. She stepped down and waited for
the two men. Maybe Overton would stay while she fixed breakfast. A single man,
he often took turns eating with the families.
Overton
approached. “Miz Caine, sorry the yell woke you. Miz McKenna died birthing
three babies. Her husband took it real bad. What with the three babies and all.
He shore weren’t prepared for such a thing.”
“Three babies?” Florence clutched her
dress above her heart. Pain speared through her. She could almost feel her
empty womb heave inside her.
Could anything be
worse? She couldn’t even have one baby, and they had three. Her breathing
deepened, and she fought to hide her thoughts from the men.
But Lenora died. The words bounced
around inside her brain. Chagrined, Florence
kept her mouth shut. How could she be so callous and selfish?
Joshua slid one
arm around her and cradled her by his side. “What’s going to happen now?” He
aimed his question at the wagon master.
Overton pulled
off his hat and held it in front of him, turning it nervously in his hands.
“We’ll have a funeral service and bury ’er today.”
“I could help
plan a group meal.” Florence
had to do something to redeem herself … at least in her own eyes.
“That’d be right
nice, Miz Caine.” He scratched his bearded chin. “Mr. McKenna’ll have his hands
full caring for those triplet girls. That’s for sure.”
The long day
rushed into eternity. A funeral and burying. A grieving husband. A somber
noontime meal. Three baby girls without a mother. Everything ran together in Florence’s mind while she
hurried to aid whomever she could. Late in the day after nursing the child,
Charlotte Holden placed one of the babies into Florence’s waiting arms before she headed
back to her wagon to nurse her own baby.
Having never held
a newborn, Florence
couldn’t believe how tiny the infant was. She settled onto a stump and cuddled
the crying child, trying to calm her. Emotions she’d never experienced before
awakened inside her, and a mother’s love flooded her heart. As Florence rocked back and forth and held the
infant close, the cries diminished, and the tiny girl slept. She cradled the
baby in one arm and with the other hand lightly grasped one of the tight fists
until it loosened. The skin felt just as velvety as she had imagined. She
tucked the baby’s arm and hand inside the swaddling blanket and touched the
fuzzy red curls that formed a halo for the tiny head. Everything going on
around her in the crowded circle faded from her awareness. She couldn’t get
enough of studying everything about the baby girl.
Wonder what your
father will name you. She gathered the fragile baby even closer against her and
dreamed of holding her own child. Surely it wouldn’t hurt for her to pretend
just for a little while that this infant was hers.
Florence lost all sense of time while she
enjoyed this little one. The baby rested in her arms, totally trusting that Florence would take care
of her. She hadn’t thought about what it would feel like for someone to
completely depend on her. She leaned over to kiss the baby’s forehead and
crooned a nameless tune. Is that what a
real mother does?
“Florence.” Joshua’s voice
drew her back to the clearing between the circled wagons.
But her husband
wasn’t alone. All the clamor of the camp had masked the sound of the
approaching footsteps of the two men. Mr. McKenna accompanied him with a
blanket-wrapped baby in his arms. For a moment she almost hadn’t recognized the
man they’d known for so many months, but the sleeping baby on his shoulder was
a good clue. He looked as if he hadn’t slept for a month. Bags hung under his
red-rimmed eyes, and the remnants of tears trailed down his cheeks. He hadn’t
shaved for at least a week, and his clothes hung on him as though they belonged
to someone else. He resembled a man at least ten years older than she knew him
to be. He clutched the baby, as if he were afraid someone would take her away
from him.
Florence rose, knowing what that felt like. He’s going to take this little angel from me.
What could she say to a man who had been through what Mr. McKenna had? She had
no words to offer. And after luxuriating in the feel of this child in her arms,
how could Florence
ever give her back to her father? The pain would be like amputating another
part of her heart. How many more hits could her heart take before it completely
stopped beating?
“Mrs. Caine.”
Angus McKenna came to an abrupt stop and cleared his throat before starting
again. “I’ve come to ask you something that … I never dreamed I’d … ever ask
anyone.” His voice rasped, and he stopped to take a gulp of air, staring off
into the distance.
She couldn’t take
her eyes from him, even when the baby in her arms squirmed. “How can we help
you?”
New tears
followed the trails down his cheeks and disappeared into his beard. He grabbed
a bandanna from his back pocket and blew his nose with one hand.
“I’ve just lost
the most important thing in my life.” He paused and stared at the ground. “I
don’t know how I can go on without her.” His voice cracked on the last word.
Once again he paused, but much longer this time. His prominent Adam’s apple
bobbed several times. “I’ve been crying out to God, but I don’t think He’s
listening to me right now. If He were …”
What a thing for a man to admit to them.
Florence knew
he must be near a breakdown. He did need help, but what could they do?
“I’ve decided …
it would be best to find another family to raise one of my girls.” He stood
straighter. “I’ve watched you with Margaret Lenora …”
“Is that what
you’ve named her?” Florence
gazed at the sleeping baby, and her heart ached for the child. To grow up without a mother.
“Yes.” He stared
across the clearing with unfocused eyes. “My wife’s parents couldn’t agree on a
name for her … Her father wanted Mary Margaret … Her mother wanted Catherine
Lenora. So they gave her all four names.” Mr. McKenna seemed relieved to be
talking about something else besides what had happened that day. “I’ve named
this one”—he indicated the baby on his shoulder—“Mary Lenora.”
He didn’t say
anything about the third girl, and Florence
was afraid to ask.
Angus looked
straight at Joshua, and her husband gave a slow nod. “Your husband has told me
… how much you’ve wanted a child.”
For a moment,
anger flared in her chest. Joshua shouldn’t share her secret with anyone. She
took a deep breath to keep from saying something she’d regret. Even though she
didn’t even look at her husband, she could feel his gaze deep inside. She was
grateful he couldn’t see the ugly jealousy and covetousness that resided there.
“What I’m trying
to say, Mrs. Caine, is …” His Adam’s apple bobbed again. “Would you consider
adopting one of my daughters and raising her as your own?” He snapped his mouth
shut and just stood there … waiting, staring at the ground and clinging to the
tiny baby in his arms.
As her own? Was this God’s answer to her
prayer for a baby? It could be. She knew she should try to encourage Mr.
McKenna to keep his daughters. He might marry again and want all three of them,
but she pushed those thoughts aside before they could take root. This might be
the only chance she would ever have for a child, and she didn’t want to lose
it. Finally, she turned her attention toward Joshua.
“I’ll be happy
with whatever you decide, Florence.”
Love poured from her husband and enclosed her in its warmth.
How could she
refuse? She held this precious bundle close to her heart right now, and she
didn’t want to ever let her go.
“I’m just asking
you to keep the name I’ve given her.” Mr. McKenna looked as if he might collapse
at any moment.
“I’d be honored
to have your daughter. I love her already.” She kissed the fuzz atop the
sleeping baby’s head.
Finally, it hit
her. I’m not going to have to give Margaret Lenora back. Florence swayed. Joshua was instantly at her
side with his arm supporting her.
“I’ll send some
clothes and blankets for Margaret Lenora. Melody Murray will come over a little later to nurse
her. She and another woman are working together to feed the babies.”
Her heart broke
for him as she watched Mr. McKenna turn and trudge toward his own wagon. Along
the way, other people spoke to him, but he just kept going as if he didn’t even
notice them.
Florence didn’t even think to tell him that
Charlotte Holden had already fed Margaret Lenora. She clutched the baby girl
close to her breast, rejoicing over his gift to her … to them. If only she
didn’t feel so guilty for what she’d been thinking.
Chapter 1
September 1885
Seattle, Washington
Margaret Lenora
Caine sat in the library of their mansion on Beacon Hill.
Because of the view of Puget Sound which she
loved, she had the brocade draperies pulled back to let the early September
sunshine bathe the room with warmth. Basking in the bright light, she
concentrated on the sketch pad balanced on her lap. After leaning back to get
the full effect of the drawing, she reached a finger to smudge the shadows
between the folds of the skirt. With a neckline that revealed the shoulders,
but still maintained complete modesty, this dress was her best design so far.
One she planned to have Mrs. Murdock create in that dreamy, shimmery green
material that came in the last shipment from China. Maggie knew silk was usually
a summer fabric, but with it woven into a heavier brocade satin, it would be
just right for her eighteenth birthday party. And with a few changes to the
design, she could have another dress created as well.
Once again, she
leaned forward and drew a furbelow around the hem, shading it carefully to show
depth. The added weight of the extra fabric would help the skirt maintain its
shape, providing a pleasing silhouette at any ball. She pictured herself
wearing the beautiful green dress, whirling in the arms of her partner, whoever
he was. Maybe someone like Charles Stanton, since she’d admired him for several
years, and he was so handsome.
“Margaret, what
are you doing?”
The harsh
question broke Maggie’s concentration. The charcoal in her hand slipped,
slashing an ugly smear across the sketch. She glanced at her mother standing in
the doorway, her arms crossed over her bosom. Maggie heaved a sigh loud enough
to reach the entrance, and her mother’s eyebrows arched so quickly Maggie
wanted to laugh … almost, but she didn’t dare add to whatever was bothering
Mother now. Her stomach began to churn, a thoroughly uncomfortable sensation.
Lately, everything she did put Mother in a bad mood. She searched her mind for
whatever could have set her off this time. She came up with nothing, so she
pasted a smile across her face.
“I’m sketching.”
She tried for a firm tone but wasn’t sure it came across that way.
“You don’t have
time for that right now.” Florence Caine hurried across the Persian wool carpet
and stared down at her. “We have too much to do before your party.”
Of course her
mother was right, but Maggie thought she could take a few minutes to get the
new design on paper while it was fresh in her mind. She glanced toward the
mantel clock. Oh, no. Her few minutes had turned into over two hours. She’d
lost herself in drawing designs again. No wonder Mother was exasperated.
She jumped up
from the burgundy wingback chair. “I didn’t realize it was so late. I’m sorry,
Mother.”
Florence Caine
took the sketch pad from her hand and studied the drawing with a critical eye.
“That’s a different design.”
Maggie couldn’t
tell if she liked the dress or not, but it didn’t matter. Designing was in
Maggie’s blood. Her grandmother was a dressmaker who came up with her own
designs instead of using those in Godey’s Lady’s Book or Harper’s Bazar. And,
according to Mother’s sister, she never even looked at a Butterick pattern.
Aunt Georgia
had told her often enough about all the society women who wouldn’t let anyone
but Agatha Carter make their clothing. They knew they wouldn’t be meeting
anyone else wearing the exact same thing when they attended social events in Little Rock, Arkansas.
Not for the first time, Maggie wished she could talk to her grandmother at
least once.
With the news
about people being able to converse across long distances with something called
the telephone, someday she might talk to her that way. But Maggie wanted a
face-to-face meeting. Knowing another dress designer would keep her from
feeling like such a misfit. Mother kept reminding her that she didn’t really
fit the mold of a young woman of their social standing in Seattle. At least, Daddy let her do what she
wanted to. She didn’t know what she’d do without him to offset Mother’s
insistence, which was becoming more and more harsh.
According to Aunt
Georgia,
the business Grandmother Carter started was still going strong, even though her
grandmother had to be over sixty years old. Maggie planned to go visit her
relatives in Arkansas,
so she could tour the company. She hoped her journey would happen before she
was too late to actually meet Agatha Carter. Her deepest desire was to follow
in her grandmother’s footsteps, since she had inherited her talents.
The sound of
ripping tore through her thoughts. Aghast, she turned to catch her mother
decimating her sketch. She lunged toward the paper, trying to save it, but
Mother held the sketch just out of her reach.
“What are you
doing?” Tears clogged her throat, but she struggled to hide them.
Dribbling the
tiny pieces into the ornate wastepaper basket beside the mahogany desk, her
mother looked up at her. “Just throwing it away. You had already ruined it
anyway.”
Anger sliced
through Maggie’s heart, leaving a jagged trail of pain. She still wanted to
keep the sketch. She could use it while she created another. Her plan was to
ask her father to help her surprise Mother. The design would set off her
mother’s tall stature and still youthful figure. She planned to ask him for a
length of the special blue satin brocade that would bring out the color of
Mother’s eyes. The dress would make Mother the envy of most of her friends when
the winter social season started in a couple of months. Now she’d have to begin
the drawing all over again. So many hours of work and her dreams torn to
shreds.
“Darling.” That
syrupy tone Mother used when she was trying to make a point grated on Maggie’s
nerves. “When are you going to grow up and forget about your little pictures of
dresses?”
Little pictures of dresses? The words
almost shredded the rest of Maggie’s control. She gripped her hands into fists
and twisted them inside the folds of her full skirt.
They’d had this
discussion too many times already. She gritted her teeth, but it didn’t help.
In a few days she would be eighteen, old enough to make decisions for herself.
Whether her mother agreed or not.
She stood as tall
as her tiny frame would allow her. “Those aren’t just ‘little drawings,’
Mother. I am going to be a dress designer.”
The icy disdain
shooting from her mother’s eyes made Maggie cringe inside, but she stood her
ground.
“Margaret Lenora
Caine, I am tired of these conversations. You will not become a working girl.”
Mother huffed out a very unladylike deep breath. “You don’t need to. Your
father has worked hard to provide a very good living for the three of us. I
will not listen to any more of this nonsense.”
Maggie had heard
that phrase often enough, and she never liked it. Mother swept from the room as
if she had the answer to everything, but she didn’t. Not for Maggie. And her
sketches were not nonsense.
She tried to
remember the last time she pleased her mother. Had she ever really?
Her hair was too
curly and hard to tame into a proper style. And the hue was too red. Maggie
wouldn’t stay out of the sun to prevent freckles from dotting her face. She
could come up with a long list of her mother’s complaints if she wanted to take
the time. She wasn’t that interested in what was going on among the elite in Seattle. She had more
things to think about than how to catch a husband.
Maggie wanted to
get married … someday. But first she would follow her dream. Become the woman
she was created to be. That meant being a dress designer. Taking delight in
making other women look their best. If it wasn’t for Grandmother Carter, Maggie
would think she had been born into the wrong family.
The enticing
aroma of gingerbread called her toward the kitchen. Spending time with Mrs.
Jorgensen was just what she needed right now. Since she didn’t have any
grandparents living close by, their cook and housekeeper substituted quite well
in Maggie’s mind.
She pushed open
the door, wrinkling her nose and sniffing like the bunny in the back garden
while she headed across the brick floor toward the cabinet where her older
friend worked. “What is that heavenly smell?”
Mrs. Jorgensen
turned with a warm smile. “As if you didn’t already know. You’ve eaten enough
of my gingerbread, for sure.”
Pushing white
tendrils from her forehead, the woman quickly sliced the spicy concoction and
placed a large piece on a saucer while Maggie retrieved the butter from the ice
box. Maggie slathered a thick coating on and watched it melt into the hot,
brown bread.
“Here’s something
to drink.” Mrs. Jorgensen set a glass of cold milk on the work table in the
middle of the large room.
Maggie hopped up
on a tall stool and took a sip, swinging her legs as she had when she was a
little girl. Mother would have something else to complain about if she saw her.
That’s not ladylike and is most unbecoming. The oft-spoken words rang through
Maggie’s mind. But Mother hardly ever came into the kitchen. Mrs. Jorgensen met
with Mother in her sitting room to plan the meals and the day’s work schedule.
“This is the only
place in the house where I can just be myself.” Maggie took a bite and let the
spices dance along her tongue, savoring the sting of spices mixed with the
sweetness of molasses.
“Yah.” The grandmotherly woman patted
Maggie’s shoulder. “So tell me what’s bothering you, kära?”
Tears sprang to
Maggie’s eyes. “Why doesn’t Mother understand me? She doesn’t even try.”
She licked a drip
of butter that started down her finger, then took another bite of the warm
gingerbread. Heat from the cook stove made the enormous kitchen feel warm and
cozy, instead of the cold formality of most of the house.
Mrs. Jorgensen
folded a tea towel into a thick square, then went to the oven and removed
another pan of the dessert. “What’s the bee in her bonnet this time?”
Maggie loved to
hear the Scandinavian woman’s quaint sayings.
“She won’t
consider letting me continue to design dresses.” Maggie sipped her milk, not
even being careful not to leave a white moustache on her upper lip. “I’ve drawn
them for our seamstress to use for the last five years. As many of them have
been for Mother as for me. And she’s enjoyed the way other women exclaimed over
the exclusive creations she wore. I don’t understand why she doesn’t want me to
continue to develop my artistic abilities.”
“Your father is a
very wealthy man, for sure.” The cook’s nod punctuated her statement. “Your
dear mother just wants what is best for you.”
“Why does she get
to decide what’s best for me?” Maggie felt like stomping her foot, but she refrained.
That would be like a child having a tantrum. She would not stoop that far now
that she was no longer a child. “Soon I’ll be eighteen. Plenty old enough to
make my own decisions.”
“Yah, and you sure have the temper to
match all that glorious red hair, älskling.”
She clicked her tongue. “Such a waste of energy.”
After enjoying
the love expressed in Mrs. Jorgensen’s endearment, Maggie slid from the stool
and gathered her plate and glass to carry them to the sink. “You’re probably
right. I’ll just have to talk to Daddy.”
The door to the
hallway swung open.
“Talk to me about
what?” Her tall father strode into the room, filling it with a sense of power.
“About my
becoming a dress designer.”
A flit of pain
crossed his face before he smiled. “A dress designer?”
Maggie fisted her
hands on her waist. “We’ve discussed this before. I want to go to Arkansas and see about
learning more at The House of Agatha Carter.”
Her father came
over and gathered her into a loving embrace. “I said I’d think about letting
you go. There are many details that would have to be ironed out first. But I
didn’t say you couldn’t go.”
Maggie leaned her
cheek against his chest, breathing in his familiar spicy scent laced with the
fragrance of pipe tobacco. “I know. But Mother won’t let me. Just you wait and
see.”
He grasped her by
the shoulders and held her away from him. “Maggie … my Maggie, you’ve always
been so impatient. I said I’d talk to her when the time is right. You’ll just
have to trust me on this.”
His eyes bored
into hers, and his lips tipped up at the ends. She threw her arms around his
waist. “Oh, I do trust you, Daddy.”
“Then be
patient.” He kissed the top of her head, probably disturbing the style she’d
work so hard on this morning.
Mrs. Jorgensen
stopped slicing the gingerbread and held the knife in front of her. “I thought
you weren’t going to be home for lunch, Mr. Caine.”
“I’m not. I’ve
only come by to pick up my beautiful wife. We’ll be dining with some friends at
the Arlington House hotel downtown.” He gave Maggie another hug and left,
presumably to find her mother.
“Would you be
wanting another piece of gingerbread, kära?”
Maggie shook her
head. “I don’t want to ruin my lunch. I have some things I need to do. Can I
come back to eat a little later?” She hoped her father could prevail against
Mother’s stubborn stance on the question of a trip to Arkansas.
Mrs. Jorgensen
waved her out the door. “You’re probably not very hungry after that
gingerbread.”
Maggie went into
the library to retrieve her sketch pad, then headed upstairs to her bedroom.
She wanted to get the drawing on paper again before she forgot any of the
details. She pulled her lacy panels back from the side window and scooted a
chair close. With a few deft strokes, she had the main lines of the dress on
the thick paper. Then she started filling it in. As each line appeared on the
drawing, she felt an echoing movement in her spirit. Deep inside, she danced
through the design as it took shape, much faster than the first time. She was
so glad she could recall every detail.
While she drew,
her thoughts returned to Grandmother Carter. Everyone said she took after her
grandmother … everyone except Mother. Why isn’t she happy about my talent?
Maggie wandered
through her memories, trying to recapture how it was when she was a little
girl. She remembered Mother playing with her when they lived in the smaller,
but comfortable house in Oregon
City. They didn’t have
servants then, but the three of them laughed and enjoyed life together. Then
for some reason, her mother had started talking to her father every chance she
got about moving to a larger place. Now that Maggie looked back on those
memories, she realized that her mother seemed almost frantic to get away from
where they lived, as if something were wrong with the town. Maggie never
understood why.
She couldn’t have
been more than five years old, but some of the events stood out. The hurry to
leave town. The long trip. For quite a while after that, she missed playing
with her friends. And she didn’t make new ones when they arrived. No other
small children lived in the neighborhood. Even when she started school, she
stayed to herself. She had been shy as a young girl.
After they moved
to Seattle and
Father bought one of the empty buildings and opened Caine Emporium, Mother changed.
Became more distant … almost cold. She was no longer the laughing woman. If
Maggie didn’t know better, she’d think something made Mother bitter. Maybe that
was one reason she wanted to design this special dress. To brighten her
mother’s life. Bring back the woman who sometimes flashed through her memory at
odd times, making her long for the warmth she had luxuriated in as a small
child.
Finally, the
drawing met her approval. Just in time to eat lunch. Maybe this afternoon, she
could finish the other sketch with the changes to make the dress more
appropriate for her mother than herself.
Once again the
kitchen welcomed her, and she enjoyed eating there with Mrs. Jorgensen. If
Mother had been home, they would have had the meal in the formal dining room, complete
with china, crystal, and silver. Such a fuss for an ordinary day.
***
“Maggie.” Her
mother’s voice rose from the foyer below. “I’m home.”
Looking at the
names of people she’d placed on the invitation list, Maggie finished writing
Charles Stanton’s name and put the pen down. “Coming, Mother.”
She rushed out of
her room and stood at the top of the staircase. “Did you want me?”
“Yes, dear. I
thought we could get some shopping done this afternoon.” Her mother still wore
her gloves and cape.
“Is it cold?”
Mother nodded.
“It’s a bit nippy, so wear something warm.”
“I’ll get my
things.” Maggie hurried back to her room and gathered a light jacket, a
handbag, and her gloves.
When she arrived
in the foyer, Mother stood tapping her foot impatiently. “I had hoped we could
buy most of the things we’ll need today.”
Maggie bit her
tongue to keep from reminding her that she wasn’t the one who had frittered
away so much of the day. If Mother wanted to go shopping, why didn’t they do it
earlier? She could have gone along for the lunch with Daddy. But evidently
Mother preferred spending time with Daddy instead of her. She took a deep
breath and followed her mother to the coach sitting in front of the house.
Mrs. Jorgensen’s
son, who was their driver, stood beside the open door, ready to assist them
into the conveyance.
“Erik, please
take us by the Emporium.” Mother took hold of his hand as she stepped up into
the vehicle.
Maggie followed
suit. “Why are we going to the store? Are we going to shop there?”
The door snapped
shut, and Erik climbed into the driver’s seat.
“I forgot to get
money from your father when we were at lunch.” Mother settled her skirts as the
coach lurched forward. “I believe your father is signing papers with young
Charles Stanton this afternoon. It will be nice to see him again. Did you add
him to your guest list?”
Maggie nodded, a
faint blush coloring her cheeks. She hadn’t seen Charles since she was about
sixteen, but she still remembered the girlish secret infatuation she’d had when
she was younger. He’d been so handsome, and kind too. Would he be changed since
he’d graduated from university? She would soon find out.
She settled back
into the carriage seat, suddenly looking forward to the afternoon’s events.
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