Mercer Girls Page 7

  Where was Clement now? Sophronia wondered as she nodded and smiled blankly at Kate’s enthusiastic prattling. Was he off wooing again? Had he set his sights on another girl already? Was Clement even now winning the heart of some girl just like this Kate—blithe and convivial, untroubled by any care—and pretty as a picture into the bargain?

  Clement would like you, Sophronia thought grimly as she listened to Kate’s chatter. He was forever telling me I ought to be more cheerful. As if a rollicksome disposition were anything a proper woman should cultivate!

  Clement hadn’t approved of Sophronia’s high principles, either. He was forever hoping to “melt the ice,” as he so coarsely put it, seeking to tempt Sophronia into questionable behavior. On one occasion he’d even expected to plant a kiss on her cheek! She had shut that presumption down quickly, with a freezing stare and a handy Scriptural quote or two about chastity. When Clement had finally called off his suit, not so many weeks ago, Sophronia almost felt relieved—almost. In spite of all his urging to be more carefree and gay, Sophronia was firm in her resolve. Moral purity was the only reliable compass for any young woman’s life. She would not give up the guidance of righteousness for anything in all the world—not even for a handsome face like Clement’s.

  A pair of younger women—sisters, by the look of them—distracted Kate from her chatter, and the girl turned away to engage with her friends. Sophronia slipped off into the crowd with some relief.

  Clement, indeed! Sophronia had hoped to get through this journey without recalling her most recent beau—or any of the others. She was leaving behind her a long string of failed courtships, a trail of redacted proposals. Lowell was a wasteland to her now, as was Boston, where her father often preached, and the countryside where the Brandt family summered. Every eligible bachelor who had not been swept up by the war had set his heart against Sophronia, citing her good morals and righteous bearing as flaws—of all astonishing outrages. Clement had been her last sensible prospect for a good marriage, and when he had withdrawn his interest, Sophronia had searched for some escape from Massachusetts and the certainty of spinsterhood. In this expedition to Seattle, she fervently prayed, she had found the fresh start she needed.

  As she made her way off through the crowd, moving as quickly as the press of bodies and scatter of baggage would allow, two women in particular piqued her curiosity. They sat together on a bench near a pile of shipping crates, conspicuously separated from the gaggle of women on the platform, and they stared at Sophronia with a stillness that could only mean they’d recently been talking about her.

  Persiflage, no doubt. Sophronia narrowed her eyes at them. Gossip all you please, ladies. I have heard it all before, and I know by now that loose tongues cannot hurt me.

  She had just made up her mind to turn pointedly away from their stares, but the state of one in particular caught Sophronia up short. The younger of the two was dressed in dirty green wool with a ripped hem, and her limp skirt seemed to have no crinoline beneath it. She had an especially youthful, almost childlike face. Why, she seems entirely too young to be here. Sophronia strode toward the pair on the bench, strafing them both with her eyes.

  The elder of the two—a woman somewhere in her middle thirties, with a properly modest, if rather strained and tired appearance—offered Sophronia a mild nod. “Good morning.”

  “How old are you?” Sophronia asked the younger. She hadn’t intended to ignore the mature woman’s greeting, but at close range the girl in green seemed even more youthful. She certainly could have no sensible business with Mercer’s party.

  The girl did not answer right away, evidently taken aback by Sophronia’s brusque query. Finally she tipped her pert little face up to meet Sophronia’s stare and said, “Old enough.”

  “I doubt that. I doubt that very much. Are you fourteen? Fifteen? You cannot be fit for this role.”

  “Role?” The girl sputtered and lurched up from the bench—then immediately stifled a cry of pain and swayed as if her feet pained her. The older woman took the girl’s hand, a soothing gesture.

  Sophronia’s mouth tightened in disapproval. She eyed the shabby green dress with its ragged hem. “You aren’t even properly dressed. Where is your crinoline?”

  “I don’t like crinolines,” she retorted. “Who does?”

  The mature woman rose from the bench and held the girl’s elbow in subtle restraint. “If you’re part of Mr. Mercer’s party,” she said to Sophronia, “then we’ll be traveling together. Let’s try to get along, since we’ll be so often in one another’s company. I’m Josephine Carey, and this is Dovey …” She trailed off uncertainly, as if she didn’t know the girl’s surname.

  “Dovey Douglas,” the girl said. She gave an evasive bat of her lashes, and Sophronia felt sure the name was a lie.

  “I am Sophronia Brandt.” She, at least, would not prevaricate. A moral woman like herself had nothing to hide. “My father is William Brandt—you know, the Presbyterian minister at Lowell’s largest church.”

  Dovey raised her brows. “You are traveling with Mr. Mercer, then? To Seattle … to marry a Washington man?”

  Sophronia sniffed. “I do not look on the voyage to Seattle as an opportunity for marriage, but rather as a mission.”

  “A mission?” Dovey squinted at her in confusion.

  “Seattle,” Sophronia said grimly. “I have heard much about that frontier town—much about its women. A viler, more sinful place has hardly been seen since the Lord sent His judgment down on Sodom and Gomorrah.” And besides, she added silently, I’ve learned better than to encourage my own hopes where marriage is concerned.

  “Whatever do you mean?” said Josephine. “Mr. Mercer spoke very highly to me of Seattle and all its citizens.”

  “No doubt he did. One cannot lure flies with vinegar.” Sophronia leaned toward the women and lowered her voice, speaking with quiet emphasis. “But mark my words, Miss Carey, Seattle is all vinegar. The place is a kettle of sin on the verge of boiling over. Mr. Mercer, I believe, hopes that brides will civilize the men of his town—and perhaps they will. But look around you: there aren’t many of us gathered, are there? For every man Asa Mercer tames with a wife, ten more—twenty more—will still be free to wade deep into dreadful filth and wickedness!”

  Dovey rolled her eyes and made no attempt to hide her scoff.

  “Laugh all you like,” Sophronia said loftily. “You’ll not be laughing when God brings His judgment on Washington Territory. Remember Sodom and Gomorrah, young lady. Remember the words of the Lord’s angels to Lot: ‘For we will destroy this place, because the cry of them is waxen great before the face of the Lord.’”

  “Careful you don’t turn into a pillar of salt,” Dovey muttered.

  Sophronia lifted her chin. This was not the first time she’d faced mockery. No, not by any stretch of reckoning. All they that see me laugh me to scorn, she quoted within her heart, and the familiar Psalm restored her composure. “I shall be obedient to the Lord’s will, as ever. I am not crossing the continent to hunt for a man, like these other women—but rather to bring what is sorely needed to the wayward women of Seattle: influence, an example of true virtue—and salvation of their eternal souls.”

  Dovey sputtered with laughter. “How grand of you!”

  “If the Lord is willing, I will help make the frontier a pure and worthy place. With the help of my sisters and brothers in this great work, I will snatch Seattle back from condemnation before the Lord can rain down His righteous fire.”

  Dovey wound a dark curl around her finger, casting a mischievous smile at Sophronia. “That’s an awful lot of work for one girl, don’t you think? After all—the salvation of an entire city!”

  Sophronia raked Dovey with another assessing frown. “I’m match enough for the work. And I can see that Seattle isn’t the only place where women lack virtue. I suppose my mission must begin before I leave Lowell!”

  “What on Earth do you mean?” The girl squared her thin shoulders, stri
ving to look poised and grand in her tattered dress.

  “You’re a proper shame,” Sophronia said. “I would never allow my young sisters to behave or to speak as you do! And I’d wager that you aren’t even old enough to undertake this journey. When Mr. Mercer appears, I shall alert him at once, and see that you’re sent back to your parents where you belong, young lady.”

  Dovey balled her fists and advanced, all the wobble gone from her step. “Oh, you will not! Just try it!”

  Sophronia ignored the girl’s protest and turned away. She craned her neck as if searching the crowd of women for Asa Mercer. Then she began to drift away, still looking about as if searching for a man of authority—someone to whom she might report Dovey’s dubious presence. Such theatrics always brought her sisters into line. But this was no idle threat. Dovey Douglas, if that really was her name, was clearly unsuited to a voyage to the frontier. For her own good, Sophronia would see that she was restored to her senses and to her guardians.

  Sophronia watched from the corner of her eye as the girl clutched Josephine’s hand, wide-eyed with horror, but Josephine only shook her head in helpless confusion. Then, apparently realizing that she would get no aid from her friend, Dovey dropped Josephine’s hand and took a few short strides after Sophronia.

  “I’ll show you Sodom and Gomorrah!” She spat the words like a cat squaring up for a fight. “Careful I don’t rain my own judgment down on you, Little Goody Two-Shoes!”

  Josephine cried, “Dovey, no!”—but too late. The girl rushed across the platform faster than Sophronia could countenance. She gaped in surprise as Dovey advanced, a blur of mud-stained green wool and fury, then spun away from that scowling whirlwind. But Sophronia hadn’t moved quickly enough. Dovey planted her hands between Sophronia’s shoulders and shoved, hard enough to make her stumble. Sophronia vented an undignified shriek as her boots clattered helplessly across the platform, and found herself tumbling into Kate’s arms.

  “Land sakes,” Kate said, righting Sophronia and steadying her on her feet. “Are you all right?”

  “Step away and let me at her!” Dovey bawled over the shocked murmurs of the crowd.

  “Now, now! Ladies, this isn’t becoming.” Josephine stepped quickly between them, holding Dovey back with a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Let Dovey alone,” she added coolly to Sophronia. “She’s old enough to make the voyage, and if what you say of Seattle is true, then Mr. Mercer can’t spare a single woman of good quality—not even the youngest.”

  “Of good quality?” Sophronia said dubiously, patting her hat to be sure it still rested straight atop her bun.

  “At any rate,” Josephine said, undaunted, “I’ve taken Dovey under my wing.”

  Sophronia’s brows drew down and she opened her mouth to reply—but in that moment, the high, hoarse whistle of an approaching train sounded. Every woman on the platform turned eagerly toward the long grid of the railway tracks. The train came in from the west, the round, sooty face of its engine growing larger by the moment, a great plume of black smoke rising and trailing along its length, darkening the pearl-gray sky.

  The girls of Mercer’s party stirred in a renewed bustle, flitting about their trunks and bags, checking their hair and tugging the sleeves and tails of jackets straight.

  Asa Mercer emerged from the depot building. He paused to shake the hand of a gray-haired man in a smart brown suit—some official of the railway, Sophronia assumed. Mercer looked toward the train with a weary, almost sad smile, but Sophronia did not trouble herself to wonder at his strange mood. Somehow Mercer’s presence—his youthful face, crowned with its three high, distinctive waves of black hair—seemed a token of reassurance from the Almighty—a promise that all would be well.

  The train crept on, slowing, sending a gout of dirty steam out from beneath its soot-darkened skirts. As it approached the depot’s platform, its rustred wheels let out a piercing scream. Sophronia winced at the sound and fidgeted on her feet. Her heart leaped in her chest.

  Soon—I’ll be away soon. I’ll leave Lowell behind, with all its disappointments, all its shattered hopes. My life will start anew.

  At last, the train ground to a halt. Sophronia would have leapt aboard and tucked herself at once into its interior, but the man in the brown suit summoned a stream of workers from the depot, and soon his men swarmed over the platform, collecting and loading the women’s baggage. The girls, their faces alight with hope, clapped their hands and hugged one another in joyous anticipation. Sophronia might have joined in their glee, had she been able to call anyone among them a friend.

  Mercer stepped atop a freight box and held his hands aloft. The assembled women settled politely, turning their beaming faces up to their leader. Josephine, standing beside Sophronia, bit her lip and paled. She alone among all the women seemed devoid of delightful anticipation. In fact, she seemed to be restraining herself with great effort—keeping back a shriek of impatience, perhaps, or some other expression of desperate, jaw-chattering fear.

  Whatever has affected her so? Sophronia wondered. She cut a surreptitious stare at Josephine as Mercer began to speak, addressing the crowd in his smooth, even tenor.

  “Ladies—you brave and true women of Massachusetts. I welcome you all to this expedition—this voyage of courage and love. And I thank you, most sincerely, for undertaking it. Seattle is waiting to welcome you all with gratitude and good will.

  “We shall travel by rail to New York City, and from New York by ship to Panama.”

  Central America. It was such a terribly long way from home. Sophronia could still feel the warmth of her sisters as they’d clung to her, crying. Now it is all real, she told herself stoically. Now my mission begins. Now I must sacrifice for the Lord’s sake, and if I am righteous and faithful, surely He will reward me. Surely He will break my long loneliness, and grant me the husband and children—the life I long for. She added a hasty amendment to her prayer: If it be His will.

  Mercer concluded his speech as the last of the women’s bags were carried aboard. His words were pleasant enough, and Sophronia did feel braced up by their brave, triumphant sound. But she could feel her past falling away already, before she had even boarded the train. It’s all for the best, she told herself, to leave the old life behind—all the disappointments, the heartbreak. But despite Mercer’s inspirational words, Sophronia knew Seattle to be a mire of sin. Even a warrior for the Lord’s cause couldn’t help feeling daunted at the prospect of leaving the staid, civilized society of Massachusetts behind for the unknown terrors of the frontier.

  When at last Mercer had talked himself out, Sophronia pressed toward the front of the platform, determined to be among the first women on the train—to go boldly toward her new life, in spite of her misgivings. Never mind the bedraggled waif with the saucy tongue; if Josephine wanted the girl under her wing, that was her own business. Sophronia had her own future to think of now.

  At close range, the train’s metal flank was warm with the fire of its engine, and the air around it stank of coal and heat. The women’s excitement—the joy of a new beginning—tinged the air as heavily as the odors of the rail yard.

  Mr. Mercer stepped down from his crate and came to stand beside Josephine at the platform’s edge. Sophronia, still musing over Josephine’s strained demeanor, turned one ear toward their conversation. Despite her eagerness to board the train, the line of girls streamed past her as she stood listening.

  “Good morning, Miss Carey,” Mercer said. “I see you made it on time.”

  “Of course.” The older woman sounded tense and distracted, but when she saw how the smile faded from Mercer’s face, she turned to him with more attention. “Is everything well? All is according to plan, is it not?”

  Mercer tugged distractedly at his neat little beard. “According to plan—not precisely. It’s a good thing you came after all, Miss Carey. It seems I need all the women I can get.”

  “But there are fourteen of us here,” she said. “A very respectable nu
mber.”

  “Respectable—that is true. But I had hoped to—er—recruit rather more.”

  “More? How many brides were you after, Mr. Mercer?”

  “I had hoped to find two hundred women ready to settle our city.”

  Sophronia forgot to be surreptitious. One hand flew to her mouth, and she gasped loudly. “Two hundred!”

  Mercer smiled at her and offered a self-deprecating shrug. “I could have made do with half that number.”

  Josephine shook her head in wonderment, so startled that she was deaf to the engineer’s call of “All aboard!” Sophronia, too, remained on the platform, staring at Asa Mercer in shock. What kind of strange land were they traveling to, where a hundred brides would have been a meager disappointment? And if Seattle’s need for women is truly so great—with barely more than a dozen of us, what kind of future awaits? A flurry of terrible images crashed through Sophronia’s head—a Seattle that was far worse than her wildest imaginings—the dark haunt of rapacious, wild men, with tangled, beastly beards and manners like bears. For a moment, Sophronia considered withdrawing from the voyage and remaining in Lowell. But there was nothing left for her here. Her final hope had departed when Clement had withdrawn his suit. There was no possible direction for her to go but west.

  I am going to Seattle, even if it is a jungle of desperate, grasping, frightful men.

  Sophronia ducked through the narrow portal of the train car, her neck and shoulders tense with resolve. The car’s interior was arched and pale between its ribs of well-oiled wood. She slipped down the aisle, holding her skirts close. The women of the expedition, so happy in their hope, chattered and laughed as they found their seats and settled in for the ride to New York.

  Sophronia and Josephine were the last to file aboard, and they found their seats at the rear of the car. Josephine sank onto the red-cushioned bench and peered out the narrow window. Sophronia followed her gaze. Men trudged up and down the sidewalk, paying no heed to the train or its passengers. A carriage rolled by, and Sophronia saw one of the little newspaper boys take up a post outside the depot, his mouth opening wide and round to call out the morning’s headline. A perfectly innocent scene, placid and benign. Yet Josephine stared through the window with obvious trepidation. When Dovey reached across the aisle and took Josephine’s hand, the older woman jumped and stifled a cry of alarm.