Blessed Assurance (10 page)

The sound of the carriage brought both their eyes forward. “He's here,” Jessie croaked. Her skirts whispering around her, she moved slowly toward the table where she laid her long gloves. Then carefully drew them on. The knock at the door came. Susan walked sedately through the hallway to answer it. Jessie heard Susan greet the doctor, then held her breath as he walked toward her.

“Jessie, how lovely you look tonight.” He took both her hands.

“Good evening, Doctor.” Miss Wright called his attention to herself.

The doctor continued to hold Jessie's hands, but he turned and bowed to the old woman. “Miss Wright.”

The doctor deftly arranged Jessie's shawl around the top of her shoulders. As his finger tips brushed the nape of her bare neck, she
shivered involuntarily, not appreciating his touch. “Shall we go?” The doctor offered her his arm.

Jessie nodded and tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. As they stepped into the hall, Mrs. Bolt called down to them from the landing, “Don't you two look charming!”

Jessie cringed. She'd noticed that Miss Greenleigh had stayed discreetly upstairs in her room. Ruby and Susan had lingered in the dining room while Miss Wright had stayed in the parlor to bolster Jessie's resolve. Her confederates had tactfully given her the privacy and support she needed to nerve herself to the task at hand. But, of course, Mrs. Bolt had no tact.

“I hear you two are off to a special evening,” the redhead said archly. “Though how a poor widow can afford a silk dress, I'm sure I don't know.” She finished with a trill of laughter.

Jessie squeezed the doctor's arm.

“I am sorry, ma'am. We do not have time to chat. Good evening.” The doctor swept Jessie outside.

With a jolt, Jessie saw Linc and Lee at the bottom of the front steps. Earlier Linc had left to go for a walk with Mr. Smith. She'd told her son she was going to a party, but she'd hoped to avoid seeing Mr. Smith. As he looked up the steps at her, she felt exposed, vulnerable.

“Mother! Where did you get that dress? It isn't black.” Her son spoke loud enough to alert everyone in the neighborhood.

More gossip. What trumped-up story would be spread to her stepfather now?
“Hello, Linc,” she said as calmly as she could. Dr. Gooden led her down the steps.

“Good evening, Mrs. Wagstaff.” Mr. Smith swept off his hat and bowed low, somehow making this polite gesture a taunting one. He lowered his voice, “Or should I address you as ‘my lady' this evening?”

At the subtle mocking in his tone and words, Jessie's face flamed. As if completely unaware of the other man's ill temper, Dr. Gooden drew out his watch. “We cannot stay to chat or we will be late.”

“I wouldn't want to make you late,” Mr. Smith sneered.

How did Mr. Smith make her feel the hypocrite? She wanted to shout at him, Yes, I know I don't belong in this dress or going to this party, but I must. Dr. Gooden has proved he's a fine man and he needs my help. Avoiding Mr. Smith's derisive gaze, she looked down at her son. “Be good, Linc. I'll be home very late. Good night.”

She hurried past them, but at the last moment, she couldn't stop herself from looking back at Mr. Smith. The naked chagrin on his face surprised her far more than his scorn. As little as she wanted to encourage either man, she'd have to be a ninny, in Miss Wright's parlance, not to realize that Mr. Smith resented her going out with Dr. Gooden.

The doctor helped her into the hired carriage and shut the door. In the dimness and privacy of the carriage, she tried not to dwell on the Dr. Gooden–Mr. Smith complication. The driver “chucked” to the team and they started off, rolling down the street.

“You look well, Dr. Gooden.”

He smiled. “Now, Mrs. Wagstaff, I ask you a favor. We have not known each other long. But tonight I wish that you will call me Henry.”

“Henry?” She edged forward. She remembered him calling her Jessie the night he'd invited her. How had she let their acquaintance move so quickly?
Why did I let myself get drawn in like this?

“Yes, it is better that we seem to have had a longer acquaintance.”

Her mind went back to Miss Wright's explanation of why Henry wanted her to accompany him and she relented. “Just for tonight,” she said with determination.
This won't happen again.

“Good. Mrs. Palmer, our hostess, and Mrs. Field, the wife of Mr. Marshall Field, are the two women most likely to help in my work. Both of them have begun to follow the example set by English ladies in sponsoring charity work.”

Jessie nodded. She'd come to help the doctor and now she must see it through. No matter what Lee Smith thought. Still, by the time their carriage pulled up in front of the Palmer residence, Jessie
felt queasy and shaky. Only a quick prayer gave her legs the strength to carry her toward the house.
House?
The Palmer mansion loomed above her like a castle of old. A castle alight with gas lamps, but to Jessie it appeared more like a formidable fortress whose battlements she was about to breach.

Gripping the doctor's arm like a lifeline, Jessie moved up the red carpeted steps and entered the massive double doors. Her pulse thrummed in her ears. Only a childhood spent concealing all emotion from her stepfather came to her rescue. Henry handed an engraved invitation to the butler.

“Ah, yes, Dr. Gooden,” the man said dourly. “And the lady?”

“Mrs. Jessie Wagstaff.” Henry patted her hand.

The butler inclined his head in greeting as they walked down the thickly carpeted hall. Gaslight flames danced in their protective glass globes along the richly papered wall. Jessie, too keyed up, merely absorbed the surroundings in terms of rich color, spaciousness, and elegance. They arrived at last at the drawing room door and were announced.

A tall woman, wearing a dress of gray silk and a rope of silvery pearls, stood up and swept toward them. “Dr. Gooden, welcome to our home.”

Henry stepped forward and kissed the woman's gloved hand. “Mrs. Palmer, thank you again for the kind invitation. May I introduce you to my friend, Mrs. Jessie Wagstaff?”

Mrs. Palmer and Jessie curtseyed to one another. Then the lady took both of them around the ornate gold and maroon room, which could have held the whole first floor of Jesse's house twice, to introduce them to her husband and eight other couples.

Mrs. Palmer ended by saying, “So you see it's an intimate group really. I didn't want either you or the good doctor to feel overwhelmed.”

Jessie felt overwhelmed. But she smiled and nodded. The only names and faces which had stuck in her mind were Mr. and Mrs. Palmer and Mr. and Mrs. Marshall Field because Henry had mentioned them.

The women's gowns glittered, shimmered, frilled.
I must seem a sober red hen.
If only the ladies back at home could see how her own amber silk dress and simple pearls were overshadowed in this lavish setting.

The butler approached Mrs. Palmer. “Dinner is served, Madame.”

Mr. and Mrs. Palmer led the way into the dining room. Glittering crystal, gleaming silver, flickering candles, glinting golden candlesticks, sparkling chandeliers. Jessie blinked her eyes, trying to accustom them to the golden light—reflected and multiplied.

She saw name cards at each place. Dr. Gooden was already drawing Jessie to two seats side by side near the middle of the table. He pulled out her chair and seated her.

Glancing down, Jessie glimpsed a heart-stopping row of forks and spoons flanking the gilt china setting. She closed her eyes, then opened them. The array of silverware stared back at her with a contemptuous gleam.

A footman stepped over and with a flourish placed a large white napkin in her lap. She swallowed a small gasp. “I've kept the menu very light this evening,” Mrs. Palmer's voice fluted over the genteel conversation. “I don't believe in heavy meals in this dreadful heat.”

Jessie nodded politely. But eyeing sideboards covered in white linen, laden with serving dishes, Jessie doubted Mrs. Palmer's concept of a light meal would agree with her own. Unfortunately, Susan's extra tug on Jessie's corset strings would prevent Jessie from doing any real eating tonight.

Listening carefully to the discussion about the mechanics of changing the course of the Chicago River, Jessie ate tiny bites of only a few foods. It was all too much.

Without warning, Mr. Palmer addressed her, “Mrs. Wagstaff, yours is a name I know. You're related to old Will Wagstaff?”

Jessie steadied herself. “He was my husband's father.”

“The man was an artist. He designed the sideboard behind you.”

Jessie glanced at it. “Yes, that looks like his work.”

“He was a master. Do you know a duke tried to buy that sideboard from me?” At this sentence, every head at the table turned
toward the sideboard. “The duke told me to name my price. The one in his castle had been damaged in a fire. He said he hadn't seen such workmanship in years. You were married to his son?”

“Yes.”

“I heard he fell in the war. He had shown great promise as a wood craftsman, too, I believe. A sad loss.”

Jessie nodded. The mention of Will and his father made sitting at this table even more unbelievable.

“Indeed the war left a sad harvest.” Mrs. Palmer motioned the butler to begin the dessert course.

A woman whose name Jessie couldn't recall said, “Yes, how wonderful that he left you well provided for.” From a footman the woman accepted a dessert plate, trimmed with a doily. “Some poor widows have even been reduced to taking in boarders.”

Jessie stiffened. She sensed that Dr. Gooden had become completely still beside her. Jessie struggled with feelings of outrage over this woman's easy condescension. Miss Wright, for once, had been correct. She was their equal, and if she were here not for Dr. Gooden's benefit, she would have told them what she thought. But she would tell them nothing of her true feelings. Perhaps this was why Mr. Smith had sneered at her foray into society.

With the back of her hand, Jessie wiped away perspiration trickling down her forehead, even though it was barely an hour since sunrise. She then returned to scrubbing at the washboard. In the shade of
the back porch, Susan stirred the simmering pot of white laundry with a broom handle.

All Jessie's uncertainties over the dinner and the subtle competition between Mr. Smith and Dr. Gooden roiled around inside her like the soapy water bubbling in Susan's laundry tub. She'd kept her peace about the Palmer dinner, but what were the chances the ladies of her house would let this continue?

With a mug in each hand, Ruby waddled out. “I got coffee.”

“Thank goodness.” Jessie straightened up, tossed Linc's shirt into Susan's pot, then accepted one of the mugs.

Miss Wright stumped out. With a coffee cup in her hand, she sat in one of the rocking chairs. “It's time you told us, Jessie, about that dinner party.”

“Yes, that's what I came out for.” Also with cup of coffee, Miss Greenleigh in a rose-pink cotton wrapper pulled up a chair beside Miss Wright. “Mrs. Bolt is still sound asleep, so this is the perfect time for you to tell us
everything
.”

Lowering herself to the top step, Ruby nodded in agreement. “We waited all day yesterday for that woman to get gone. But she stuck like a burr.”

Still churning inside, Jessie sank onto a lower porch step and looked up at her audience. The dinner party was still too personal, too troubling, yet these women had earned a stake in it, too.

Susan joined Ruby on the top step. “Did you have a bad time?”

“What was it like inside the Palmer mansion?” Miss Greenleigh leaned forward.

Buying time, Jessie sipped coffee. “Luxurious. Lovely paintings. Flocked wallpaper. Rich Persian carpets.” Jessie tried to put enthusiasm into her voice.

“What were the ladies wearing?” Miss Greenleigh prompted.

“Mrs. Palmer wore a gray silk dress with a rope of pearls. The other ladies wore sateen or silk dresses in brilliant colors—royal blue, green, purple, all shimmering in the gaslight.”

Jessie didn't mention how overshadowed her simple gown of
amber silk had been. Perhaps working might mask her reluctance, agitation. Putting down her empty coffee cup, she went back to the washboard.

“What they serve?” Ruby asked.

Jessie picked up another shirt, soaped the inside of its collar, then rubbed it against the washboard. The harsh soap stung her fingers like a just punishment for her foray into pretension. Pretension—that's what Mr. Smith's expression had pronounced on her. “We had consommé, turkey and fish, so many side dishes. For dessert we had fresh fruit and Italian ices.”

“Just right for a summer dinner,” Ruby approved.

Jessie didn't mind reciting the simple facts.
Just don't ask me how I felt about it. Please.

Ruby began, “I 'member—”

Miss Wright interrupted, “Jessie, did you notice the sideboard in their dining room?”

Jessie tossed the shirt into the pot. So Miss Wright knew about that. “Yes, Mr. Palmer made the family connection between me and Will's father. He said a British lord had tried to buy the sideboard from him.”

“Really?” Miss Wright sounded pleased. “I'm glad to hear they hadn't bought something newer.”

“No, Mr. Palmer was quite complimentary about Will's father's skill.” Jessie couldn't voice Mr. Palmer's kind words about her Will.

“Margaret was always so proud of her husband's work.” Miss Wright's voice shook. “Will had the gift, the love of wood and fine detail, too.”

Susan walked back to the bubbling pot to begin stirring again. “Jessie, you don't sound like you had a good time.”

Jessie couldn't hold back her misgivings any longer. “It was a difficult evening. I felt…out of place.”

“I cook my whole life in the big house,” Ruby grumbled. “Don't you never think fine clothes and gilt on they china mean no sorrow or sin.”

“Well said,” Miss Wright glanced at Ruby approvingly.

These words freed Jessie from the last of her constraint. Her revulsion at being less than honest bubbled up from inside her. “I felt like an actress playing a part. I would never have gone if it hadn't been to help Dr. Gooden.”

“What about Dr. Gooden, Jessie?” Miss Wright demanded. “Is it your intention to remarry?”

The unforeseen words knocked the wind out of Jessie. She gasped for breath. “Marry the doctor?”

“Yes, do you plan to marry the doctor or do you intend to marry Mr. Smith?” The spinster stared at her with narrowed eyes.

The urge to run away surged through Jessie. “I haven't encouraged either gentleman to think I favor him.”

“Is that what you think?” Miss Wright “humphed,” then went on: “That's not what the neighbors think. What with the both men hanging around this back porch practically every evening.”

Jessie tasted bile on her tongue.
Marry? Me
?

“She right.” Ruby nodded. “They be your gentlemen callers. Everybody see that.”

“I will never marry again.” Jessie slapped a petticoat onto the board and began rubbing furiously. “Mr. Smith is Linc's friend not mine. We can't be together for more than a few minutes without his trying my temper.”

Miss Greenleigh said slyly, “Yes, I've noticed that.”

Before Jessie could think how to answer this, Miss Wright said in a starched-up tone, “This avoiding the truth will not wash, Jessie. Dr. Gooden and Mr. Smith may not have said anything plainly, but no man comes every evening just to play ball or talk about medicine.”

“You got that right,” Susan said under her breath, so only Jessie could hear her.

“Must I be held accountable for how two men choose to spend their evenings?” Jessie scrubbed faster, harder.

“That's enough scrubbing on my petticoat,” Susan objected. “I hanker to wear one without holes.”

Jessie flushed and threw the wet petticoat into the tub.

Miss Wright continued lecturing her: “If you don't wish to encourage these gentlemen, you must let them know that their suit would not please you.”

“But why shouldn't their suit please you?” Miss Greenleigh countered, wide-eyed. “Both of them are eligible. There's nothing wrong with a widow remarrying. You've been alone for over six years now.”

Jessie grumbled, “I am still not convinced that either of them is looking for a wife or looking at me as a prospective wife.” Certainly Mr. Smith had never voiced such an intention.

Miss Wright shook her head. “I see how that doctor looks at you. That man has marriage on his mind.”

“He a busy man,” Ruby seconded. “If he ain't interested in you, he don't spend that much time here.”

Miss Greenleigh said, “I think Mr. Smith would make an excellent stepfather for Linc.”

As though pricked with a sharp needle, Jessie snapped, “Never! Linc will never live under a stepfather.” Hands on her hips, she faced the women ranged on the porch. “I made Linc that promise the day we held his father's memorial service.”

The women looked back at her, obviously shocked at her outburst.

“I will never marry again,” Jessie declared, vibrating inside with a mixture of fear and worry.
Then why can't I just send them away?

Miss Greenleigh crossed her arms over her breast and observed, “Then you'd better tell that to these men. Just dressing in black has not dampened their interest.”

Susan spoke up, “Why you think it would be so bad for Linc to have a stepfather? Not every man be hard like your stepfather. Maybe Linc want a stepfather—especially if he be someone like Mr. Smith. Did you ask your boy?”

Jessie tightened her mouth and bent over the washboard. “I know what's best for my son.”

 

July 4, 1871

In the deep twilight, another wave broke around Linc making him squeal. “Mother!” Linc in a one-piece swimsuit splashed through the shallows at the Oak Street Beach to her at water's edge. “I found some more shells.” He slid the tiny wet shells into her hand.

Before she could add them to the sandy collection wrapped in a handkerchief in her pocket, Linc charged out to meet another white-capped wave.

With his pant legs rolled up, Lee waded over to her. “I have never seen such waves on this lake before.”

“An east wind brings the waves in high and warm. When I was little, my mother brought me here whenever the wind was right,” Jessie murmured. She fell silent, recalling the severe scolding her stepfather had given her mother for going into the water with her.

Suddenly a blast of loud brass band music fluttered to them on the wind. “It must be nearly time for the fireworks,” Jessie said.

“Will we really see them from here?” Lee asked.

“Yes, they do them at the lakefront.” Jessie sank down onto the rented beach chair and modestly arranged herself. A smile she couldn't quell shaped her face.

The cooling lake breeze made her feel wonderfully comfortable and relaxed. Linc splashed out of the waves and collapsed onto the sand beside his mother's chair.

“Thanks for persuading us to come, sport,” Mr. Smith said.

“It's Independence Day. We had to do something special.” Linc leaned against Jessie. The sky turned from brass to deep violet to slate. For once, Mr. Smith wasn't ironic or sardonic with her.

While Mr. Smith still irritated her with his care-for-nothing attitude, how could she feel anything but gratitude to him? His kindness to her fatherless son had put her deeply in his debt. But she refused to believe Mr. Smith was interested in her. Miss Wright was completely “off base” in regards to Mr. Smith. She smiled over
her own use of the baseball term. Linc's passion for the game had infiltrated their life.

Night came. Without speaking, Jessie and the others turned south toward the carnival and waterfront. The warmth of the day lessened.

Boom! The first fireworks exploded overhead with golden streamers. The pyrotechnic show proceeded quickly. Jessie lost herself in the dazzling colors, pounding explosions, and the cascade of oohs and ahhs from the shore and water. She glanced at her son and took pleasure from the joy in his expression. Her eyes strayed and caught sight of Mr. Smith, too. Everyone else's eyes were skyward, but Mr. Smith had buried his face in his hands.

Why?

The answer came quickly. The war. She'd heard stories of veterans who jumped at any loud noise. Was Mr. Smith remembering the dreadful thunder of cannons and red flares of the bombs overhead? Her lips pressed together. Mr. Smith shivered suddenly as if it were cold. She thought she heard him moan. The man often irritated her with his care-for-nobody air. But was that to conceal the pain from his past?
I never thought of that
.

The fireworks ended with a fantastic series of explosions in gold, brilliant blue, crimson, and startling green. The city's gaslights twinkled against the charcoal sky. All around her, mothers and fathers gathered sleepy children for the walk or trolley ride home. The voices were soothing, homey. An overtired child began crying and his mother sang him a weary-sounding lullaby. This sound fit her mood. Why hadn't she ever thought of this man's suffering?

Soon few people were left. Jessie became aware that Linc had fallen asleep heavily against her. Still she didn't speak or move. Mr. Smith appeared to remain wrapped up in his inner turmoil. Jessie did not want to disturb him. What tormented him tonight? Finally he looked up. She expected him to look to Linc's face first. When he looked to her first, her heart tightened. But his expression remained distant, veiled.

In the lamplight, the white-capped waves still rushed the sandy
beach, racing up the shore. If this man had been to war just like Will, what had he brought with him from that experience? She couldn't ask. At last, she murmured, “Linc has fallen asleep. We need to get home.”

Mr. Smith stood, then bent down. “I'll carry him.” He swung Linc up into his arms. The boy didn't waken. Jessie and Lee walked silently through the quiet streets and down her alley. As they approached her house, she stumbled and Lee caught her arm. She noticed Mrs. O'Toole's curtain twitch. Well, the gossips would talk no matter what she did. She tried to take a step and cringed. “My ankle.”

“Twisted it?” Mr. Smith asked.

She clung to his arm. “Yes.”

“Lean on me. It's only a few steps to your back porch.”

She had no choice. Yet she'd not been this close or touched a man like this for a long time. Mr. Smith had left his coat at her house, so only his shirt separated her skin from his. In the cocoon of night, she was very aware of his breathing, of his masculine scent, of the sinew of his arm. Women and children were so soft, cushiony, and men so solid to the touch.

At her back steps, she let herself down onto the second one. “Take Linc to bed,” she murmured. “Send Susan out to help me.”

He left with only a nod. She rested her head against the railing, letting the images from this happy day play through her mind. Mr. Smith and Linc running down the beach toward the water, racing to see who could shuck his shoes and socks and make it into the water first. The two of them devouring her fried chicken and competing over who could spit watermelon seeds the farthest. The day's joy zipped through her.

“Jess?” Mr. Smith's voice came to her and then he was raising her and helping her up the steps. “Susan isn't back yet.”

Jessie nodded against him. They were all alone, a rare occurrence, and she wanted to say something to this man who loved her son. This man who'd likely suffered loss, pain, and deprivation in the cruel war. But what could one say? “Lee?” she said his name for the first time.

He stopped. “Jess?”

A shaft of moonlight illuminated his eyes. She reached up and stroked his hair. It was springy and thick. Her hands liked the feel of it. “You've given us so much.” She didn't know where the words came from.