The Measure of a Lady (26 page)

Rachel had the drayman unload her barrel and blankets. She then opened the barrel’s valve and began to saturate the blankets with the vile-smelling vinegar.

Men quickly lined up next to them, and Selma distributed the blankets. The men covered as many roofs as they could.

A rider on a fine black stallion charged down the street as if the mud were of no consequence. Rachel’s breath caught in her throat. It was Lissa, riding astride in trousers and a flannel shirt, her hair billowing out behind her.

‘‘Quick,’’ she shouted. ‘‘We need men to help pull down some buildings.’’

Several men stepped forward and she gave them directions.

‘‘Rachel,’’ she yelled.

Rachel straightened.

‘‘I’ve sent some of the wounded over to my house. It’s big and we have plenty of room. But I need someone to see to them until I can get there. Will you go?’’

To her house? The place that she lived in . . . with her lover?

‘‘If your enemy hungers, feed him; If he thirsts, give him drink.’’

Taking a deep breath, Rachel nodded. ‘‘I will go, but I don’t know where you live.’’

‘‘I do,’’ Selma said.

Lissa pulled up next to them.

‘‘Where are you off to?’’ Rachel asked.

‘‘I’m going to use my horse to help pull some buildings down.’’

‘‘What good will that do?’’

An explosion shook the ground. Lissa’s horse danced, then stilled under its master’s tight control.

‘‘If there are no buildings in the fire’s path, it should burn itself out,’’ Lissa explained.

‘‘Will that work?’’

‘‘I don’t know. I hope so.’’

‘‘Have you seen Michael?’’

‘‘Not yet.’’

Another explosion rent the air.

Lissa fought again with her mount. ‘‘I have to go.’’

She touched her horse’s flanks and started forward.

The verses God had long since planted in Rachel’s heart poured forth within her soul, and she could no more ignore them than she could keep herself from breathing.

‘‘If anyone has a complaint against another; even as Christ forgave you, so you also must do.’’

‘‘Lissa?’’ Rachel yelled.

Her sister reined in and turned.

‘‘Be careful?’’

A bittersweet expression crossed Lissa’s face. ‘‘I will if you will.’’

And then she was gone.

chapter
24

R
achel had never seen a more curious structure.

She was accustomed to straight lines and even surfaces. The columns and alcoves jutting out at various angles from Lissa’s house fascinated her.

She’d heard the home had been constructed with timbers of ships that had run aground, but as it was painted in bright yellow, she couldn’t tell. The windows, doors, and roof line had been adorned with whimsically carved trim painted in a contrasting blue.

A roomy verandah with an ornate balustrade surrounded the entire manor. Upon it lay a dozen men in various states of distress. She quickened her pace.

‘‘Gentlemen, help is here,’’ she said, climbing the wide plank steps. ‘‘I am Miss Van Buren, and this is Miss Johnson.’’

With a sweep of her gaze, she took in a mélange of singed beards, blistered faces, swollen hands, and horror-stricken eyes. The smell of burnt flesh clogged her nose. Maintaining a calm, ordinary demeanor took some doing.

‘‘Miss Johnson and I will put some poultices together and see if we can make you more comfortable. But first, something to drink.’’

‘‘Whiskey?’’

The pathetically hopeful note in the whispered question tore at her heartstrings. ‘‘We will save that for those who need it the most,’’ she offered gently then followed Selma through the door and into the parlor.

Her step faltered. The furniture was richly carved and covered in blue and gold brocatelle. Fabric of the same design framed windows that faced the street, along with an under curtain of richly embroidered lace.

A pier mirror in a gilt frame hung above an impressive fireplace with a white marble mantel. Two chandeliers decorated with cupids hung from the ceiling.

‘‘We’ll get the floor filthy,’’ Selma said, lowering her voice to a whisper.

Rachel gave her a little push. ‘‘Go on. Let’s find the kitchen.’’

The kitchen was not as grandly furnished as the parlor, but it was big, functional, and well equipped. Herbs and spices contained in bottles and pouches lined a shelf, while others hung drying from the ceiling.

She glanced out the back window. ‘‘Oh, Selma, look. A water pump. Right in the yard.’’

‘‘Praise the heavens, let’s go.’’

Selma pumped and Rachel rotated the buckets until they had four filled. Once inside, Selma set the water to boiling; Rachel raided the storeroom.

‘‘I found lettuce, cucumbers, and potatoes,’’ she said, returning to the kitchen.

‘‘Oh, thank goodness.’’

Rachel placed them on the table. ‘‘As soon as you get the lettuce boiling, would you mind slicing these up? I’ll see what I can find for makeshift pallets and bandages.’’

Lissa’s bedroom was even bigger than the parlor and just as ornately decorated. A chaise lounge built for two. A gilded toilet table.

Oversized oriental pillows bunched up in an octagonal alcove, their rich fabrics embroidered with fine gold threads.

The focal point, without question, though, was the large bedstead curtained in white linen. The gilded and ornately carved piece spoke of opulence and decadence.

She felt small and intrusive. But the men outside were in a bad way and needed some creature comforts. She would just open the camphor trunk sitting in the corner, grab whatever blankets or calicos lay on top, and leave.

A red satin gown lay on top. She peeked underneath it. Sapphire brocade. Under that, gold silk.

Sumner’s things. Lissa’s unmentionables. Unmentionables the likes of which were made for tantalizing, not for hiding under. Gossamer. Feathers. Sheer white lace trimmed with red ribbon.
Red
.

At the bottom were the blankets and calicos. She gingerly tried to remove them without displacing the clothing on top.

Then she all but ran back to the sanctuary of the kitchen. Selma had a tray laden with sliced cucumbers, sliced potatoes, a mug, and a bottle of whiskey.

Rachel glanced at her.

‘‘It’ll help dull the pain. Now go on.’’

Laying down the linens and her misgivings, Rachel picked up the tray, moved to the porch, and found two other women quietly conversing with the men.

The first woman straightened. She had short curly black hair and a wide forehead, worry lines marring its surface. ‘‘You Miss Van Buren?’’

Rachel nodded.

‘‘I’m Josephine, but everyone calls me Jo.’’ She indicated her companion. ‘‘This here is Annie.’’

Annie was a tall woman with hair parted down the middle and slicked back into a bun. ‘‘Lissa sent us. She thought you could use some help.’’

Every lesson, every sermon, every book had drilled into Rachel that these women were the antithesis of all that was good and righteous. That to consort with them would make her one of them.

Yet the tighter she tried to hold on to those teachings, the more troubled her spirit became. Every time she opened her Bible of late, she read about grace, mercy, forgiveness. She read about bringing others to Him through acts of service and kindness and love.

Why, she’d worked with Selma for months and had experienced no ill effects.

And Lissa. Lissa may have been living a life of sin, but she wasn’t evil. She was certainly acting outside of God’s will, but did that make her irredeemable? Lost forever? And if it did, then what was the point of Christ dying on the cross?

A man moaned, and all thoughts but one left Rachel’s mind in an instant. She looked at the two women, both of them clearly torn between concern for the men and apprehension over being tossed off the porch.

‘‘Indeed I do need some help,’’ Rachel said. ‘‘Have you been here long enough to examine the patients?’’

Their rigid postures relaxed.

‘‘Not all of ’em,’’ Josephine said. ‘‘But Bart here is burnt pretty bad.’’

‘‘Well, I have some cucumbers and raw potatoes. They should feel cool to the skin and help with the swelling.’’

‘‘Jo? Is that you? You have some whiskey fer me?’’ The voice came from the opposite end of the porch.

‘‘It’s me, Patrick. Just hold on a minute and let me get organized.’’

‘‘What are your full names?’’ Rachel asked.

The girls looked at each other.

‘‘I’m Josephine Bellingham.’’

‘‘And I’m Annie Holmes.’’

‘‘Gentlemen?’’ Rachel called. ‘‘I will not have these ladies addressed with such familiarity. Josephine’s name is Miss Bellingham and Annie’s name is Miss Holmes. Do I have your cooperation?’’

‘‘Miss Bellingham?’’ It was the same voice as before. ‘‘You have some whiskey fer me?’’

Jo smiled. ‘‘Yes, Patrick. I have some whiskey. But nobody gets anything unless Miss Van Buren gives the say-so.’’

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur. Selma and Annie took over the kitchen, while Rachel and Josephine tended to the men.

All twelve patients were conscious. Those with the most superficial looking burns tended to be more agitated and uncomfortable than the ones with severe burns.

The man that worried Rachel most made no complaints at all. His hands looked as if they’d been shredded. His head was just one big hot air balloon—puffed up and unnaturally round. His singed hair and beard curled up like snakes. His swollen lips had grown to three times their normal size.

Josephine carefully applied lard to his hands, then wrapped them with strips of cotton torn from one of Lissa’s calicos. ‘‘Now don’t you worry about a thing, Bart. I’m gonna have you fixed up good as new.’’

Dull eyes stared back at her, pupils so big and black his irises could not even be seen.

‘‘What would you think about letting me shave off that ol’ beard o’ yours?’’ she asked. ‘‘I been secretly wonderin’ if you’re hiding dimples under there, and now’s my chance to find out.’’

She kept up her monologue, cutting his shirt off his body as she examined him further for burns. The smell must have been choking her, but she gave no indication of such. Just worked and cared for Bart, ministering to his spirit as much as his wounds.

Miss Josephine Bellingham was a good nurse. And nurses were in very short supply in this territory. Very short supply indeed.

An inkling of an idea began to form. Rachel mulled it over as she moved from man to man. She applied poultices of apple slices for headaches, served up onion juice and honey for coughs, and patted lettuce swabs on any skin too bright or too pale.

Before the dinner hour, five more women came to help and dozens more men came for treatment.

The whiskey supply in Lissa’s storeroom turned out to be plentiful. Rachel allowed the women to administer it liberally, knowing it would dull the pain and induce amnesia for those who needed it.

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.