A Daughter's Inheritance (37 page)

“Sounds good,” Michael said, returning his gaze to the town. The mountains rose up behind the settlement, displaying white crowns of snow. Michael had to admit the beauty was startling. Everything seemed so massive—so impressive. If only Fanny were here to share it.

They were delayed leaving Juneau due to a storm, but when they finally arrived in Skagway, Michael felt a new sense of direction. He and Zeb had struck a good friendship as well as a solid agreement. Michael would work for the Stanley brothers through the winter and net twenty percent of what he found. Of course Sherman would first have to agree to the arrangement, but Zeb felt confident his brother would be willing to part with ten percent of his share in order to accumulate that much more gold. And based on what Zeb had told him they’d made from last year’s work, Michael stood to make thousands of dollars. The thought pleased him immensely.

“Well, we’re here,” Zeb said, slapping Michael on the back. “Now the hard work begins. You’ll have to face the Chilkoot.”

“Is that the mountain pass you were telling me about?”

He nodded. “There are two ways north from Skagway. One goes straight up from the town. It’s a vicious trail, though. I prefer the route out of Dyea. It’s a little town to the west of here. It’s too shallow to take a steamer in to dock, so we dock here and then hire a boat to take our supplies over. There’s a lot of Tlingits looking to make a few dollars.”

“Klinkets?” Michael questioned. “What’s that?”

“Local natives. They’re good folks. Peaceable types unless you cheat them.”

“Sounds reasonable. I tend to be the same way myself,” Michael said with a grin.

Zeb leaned closer. “We’re not going to hole up in Skagway tonight. We’ll get a boat to take us right over to Dyea. Most folks will stay here. They don’t know what they’re doing. We’ll get on over and hire us some help. You did say you had some cash to your name, didn’t you?”

“Some. Not a whole lot.”

“Given the fact that you’ll be making upwards to a hundred trips up and down that mountain without help, you’ll be happy to pay some of the natives to pack the goods for you.”

“You mean there are no wagons to take the stuff? No boats?” Michael realized he knew just about as little as the rest of the newcomers.

Zeb shook his head. “It’s hard terrain. Not at all kind. Like I said, this is a most unforgiving land. If you have any doubt about that, you’d best put it aside now. You’ll be walking most of the way. Boat ride comes after you get up and over the Chilkoot Trail.”

“And we have to carry everything?”

“Afraid so. Some of it can be hauled a ways by horse or mule. Not a whole lot of ’em available, though. You can sometimes pull a load. The Tlingits can make some great sledges, but they only work until you get to the pass itself.”

“I see. Well, I suppose there’s nothing to be done about it,” Michael said, squaring his shoulders. “I’ll have to trust you on this one.”

Zeb met his gaze and smiled. “Nah. Don’t go putting your trust in me. The good Lord is the only one who deserves that. It’s not going to be easy, but with a little hard work and a whole lot of prayer, I’ll get you to the gold fields ahead of this stampede. And the sooner we get there, the sooner you can get back to your little gal.”

Michael looked at the daunting mountain peaks already topped with snow. He couldn’t imagine how a man could ever manage such an arduous feat. The terrain looked jagged and severe. Zeb’s words about the land being unforgiving were gradually beginning to make sense.

I can do this,
Michael told himself.
For Fanny and for our
future, I can endure whatever I must.
He gazed heavenward, past the craggy peaks and snow
. I can do all things through Christ
which stengtheneth me.
The verse from Philippians had never seemed so comforting as it did at this moment, for Michael was sure there was no possible hope that his own strength could see him through the challenges to come.

28

Wednesday, September 8, 1897
Syracuse, New York

In a crisp tone the conductor announced the upcoming stop before continuing on to the next railcar. Fanny’s heart beat in quick step when the train lurched and hissed to a halt a few minutes later.
Syracuse
. She’d been filled with a mixture of anticipation and dread ever since bidding Amanda, Sophie, and Aunt Victoria farewell at the Rochester train station. In truth, she’d been suffering from a bout of nerves since Uncle Jonas announced she would make the journey.

Her fingers trembled as she pulled on a pair of lightweight summer gloves. She told herself this could be no worse than listening to the murmurs when she attended a social function with her cousins or hearing the rumors passed on by
thoughtful
acquaintances who always began their sentences with the same verbiage:
“I thought you’d like to know what I heard.”
Their proclamation was immediately followed by a ghastly report of her mother’s illicit behavior or a mean-spirited comment regarding Fanny’s parentage. And they always smiled and offered pitying looks while they delivered the painful tidbit. Fanny didn’t know which was worse: hearing the comments or knowing that the messenger took pleasure in the delivery.

Hat in hand, Mr. Morrison stood near the terminal doorway. Fanny spotted him the minute she stepped off the train. He waved his hat, and when he stepped forward to greet her, she surveyed the area. He seemed to be alone. Mrs. Morrison had apparently chosen to remain at home; Fanny hoped the woman’s failure to come wasn’t an indication that she would be unwelcome in their home. Mr. Morrison’s letter of invitation to come for an extended visit had spoken of his wife’s desire to meet Fanny. She wondered if he’d spoken the truth.

His gaze traveled to the small valise in her hand. “You have other baggage, I assume?”

“Yes, my trunks were loaded into the baggage car.” She looked over her shoulder. Two burly men were unloading them and placing them at the far end of the platform. She’d not had the luxury of a Pullman car on this excursion. If all she’d heard about Mr. Morrison was true, she doubted whether she’d ever have such a luxury again.

She waited while Mr. Morrison made arrangements for her trunks to be placed in an old horse-drawn wagon. She had expected a carriage, but she supposed a wagon would prove reliable, and there’d be no need to pay extra for the delivery of her trunks. Mr. Morrison assisted her up onto the wagon but offered no apology or explanation for their transportation. With a click of his tongue and a snap of the reins, the horses stepped out.

When they’d traversed only a short distance, Mr. Morrison said, “My wife would have come to meet you, but she wanted to have a fine meal prepared for your arrival. She decided a good meal after your journey was more important than waiting at the train station.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “I hope you agree, for she would never intentionally offend anyone.”

A breeze that carried the scent of approaching fall weather rippled through the air and tugged the first of summer’s dying leaves from nearby trees. A desire to be at home, where she could help the gardener prune the bushes and prepare the gardens for winter, created a dull ache in Fanny’s bones. The ache deepened when she considered the truth: she had no place to claim as her home.

Since Grandfather’s death, Fanny could no longer consider Broadmoor Mansion home. Uncle Jonas had moved her under his roof, but neither he nor Fanny considered his house to be her home, either. Like the leaves that fluttered along the street, she had been discarded and set adrift.

Now she would be immersed in a situation for which she felt ill prepared. Then again, she didn’t think any amount of education or training would have prepared her to live in the same house with a long-lost father and his wife of many years. She realized dignity and grace would be required, but days filled with forced smiles and uncomfortable conversation held little appeal.

The conveyance made a final turn, and Mr. Morrison pulled back on the reins. The wagon came to rest in front of a modest white frame house with a pleasant enough yard and large front porch. Lilac bushes had been planted to advantage, and Fanny imagined a spring breeze carrying their sweet scent through open windows to perfume the interior. Mr. Morrison jumped down from the wagon and circled around to assist her.

A thin woman with chestnut brown hair stepped onto the porch and shaded her eyes. Although she waved, her right hand remained affixed to the handle of the front door. She conveyed an anxiety that matched Fanny’s own. Fanny understood, for she would have taken flight if there had been someplace for her to run.

Mr. Morrison held on to her hand and gently drew her forward. “Come along and I’ll introduce you to my wife. I can return for your baggage after you’re settled inside.”

Settled? Fanny doubted she would ever again feel settled until Michael returned to claim her as his bride. She didn’t withdraw from Mr. Morrison’s grasp. Without the strength emanating from his hand, she would surely sink to the ground in an embarrassing heap.

With a sweeping gesture, he motioned his wife forward. “My dear, let me introduce you to Miss Frances Jane Broadmoor.” He gently squeezed Fanny’s hand. “However, she tells me she prefers to be addressed as Fanny.”

Mrs. Morrison released the door handle. “I’m pleased to meet you, Fanny. And you may call me Ruth—or Mrs. Morrison— whichever you decide is more comfortable.”

“For now, Mrs. Morrison seems appropriate.”

The older woman opened the door and ushered Fanny inside. “If you wish to reconsider your choice at any time, please don’t feel the need to request permission.”

Once they’d been introduced, the woman’s earlier trepidation appeared to melt away. She asked her husband to retrieve Fanny’s trunks and proceeded, with neither apology nor embarrassment, to point out the few amenities their home offered, explaining that they’d fallen upon hard times.

“Many people suffered greater losses through the depression, and we’ve had a few setbacks along the way. But even if we’re never restored to our previous financial status, I still consider myself fortunate.” Mrs. Morrison glanced toward the street, where Mr. Morrison was removing Fanny’s trunks from the wagon bed. “I’ve been blessed with a wonderful husband, we’ve never gone hungry, and we have a roof over our heads. God has been faithful to answer my prayers.”

Perhaps Mrs. Morrison didn’t know that, rather than the economic downturn, her husband’s gambling was rumored to be the cause of their financial woes. Fanny doubted whether the woman’s praises for her husband would ring forth with such conviction if she’d heard those tales. Then again, Fanny couldn’t be certain the gossip was true. Who could believe her cousin Beatrice? True or false, Beatrice repeated every morsel of tittle-tattle with great delight. And Mr. Morrison did seem a nice enough man.

“I do hope you’ll find your room comfortable. I know you’re accustomed to much finer accommodations. Harold said I shouldn’t worry. He said you knew you wouldn’t be coming to a huge mansion with servants and the like.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Come along and I’ll show you to your room.”

Fanny couldn’t help but notice the faded print and worn cuffs of Mrs. Morrison’s gown. Although she’d clearly done her best to control the fraying cuffs with a thread and fine stitches, the dress had surely seen better days. Once again, Fanny wondered how a couple with such meager means had afforded a stay at the New Frontenac Hotel. Mrs. Morrison didn’t appear the type who would squander money on such an extravagance. When they became better acquainted, Fanny would broach the subject.

The room was very small, and Fanny doubted her clothes would fit into the wardrobe, but she didn’t mention her concerns. Instead, she simply accepted Mrs. Morrison’s invitation to unpack her belongings. “I’ll join you downstairs once I’ve finished.”

“Supper should be ready by then. I do hope you don’t mind simple fare. There was a time when Harold and I—” She stopped short. “I’ll be serving chicken this evening, and I hope you’ll find it to your liking.”

“I’m certain it will be most enjoyable. Thank you.”

Fanny unlatched her trunk and shook out her dresses. She’d hang her best gowns, and the others could remain in her trunk until she discovered an alternative. The bedroom offered a view of the backyard. She surveyed Mrs. Morrison’s garden from the window. Though the spring and summer blooms had disappeared, the older woman clearly enjoyed flowers. Mr. Morrison had spoken the truth: if nothing else, she and Mrs. Morrison had gardening in common.