Yankee Wife (2 page)

“Aren't there any women in Seattle?” Lydia asked. She immediately regretted the indelicacy and bluntness of the question, but it was too late to call back her words.

“None to speak of,” Mr. Quade replied. He really was handsome, with his leonine head of golden hair and strong jawline, which might have been carved, like his nose, by a master sculptor. He was cultivated, too. He would probably be very kind to the candidate he selected for his wife. “Women are at a premium in the Northwest. Why, I'll bet you couldn't walk from the harbor to Yesler's Mill without getting at least six marriage proposals.”

Lydia swallowed. She had only bargained for coffee and rolls, not a barrage of amorous lumberjacks and mill workers. “Did you have a large response to your…advertisement?” she asked, unable to look at him. She was staring down at the few remaining crumbs of her breakfast.

“The majority of them were unsuitable,” he admitted. “The Puget Sound area is still largely untamed and very primitive. It's no place for timidity or a hysterical temperament. On the other hand, it's beautiful country, and a woman bearing the Quade name would lack for nothing of any true significance.”

The whole insane idea was beginning to sound good to Lydia. Appealing as this man was, she felt no particular attraction to him, but she imagined she could adjust to being his wife. That would certainly be preferable to some of her other options, like starving to death or taking up the lewd profession.

Mr. Quade reached for the silver pot, refilled Lydia's coffee cup with as much elegant deference as if she were a duchess instead of a homeless wretch with two tarnished coins in her pocket. “Would you like to come to Quade's Harbor with me, Lydia?” he asked. “We'd be sailing in three days, and I would, of course, put you up here at the hotel in the interim. I would give you an advance on your allowance, as well, since you'll probably need a few things.”

Lydia just sat there, gaping. This proposal had been unlike any she'd read about or heard of, but it wasn't without appeal. She could eat, sleep in a safe, warm, clean place, even buy herself “a few things.” She didn't think beyond that; she was too dazed by the sudden turn her fortunes had taken.

“Yes,” she said, bold in her desperation. “Yes, Mr. Quade, I would like that very much.”

“Very well,” he replied, with another of his boyish, endearing smiles, taking a wallet from the inside pocket of his coat. He removed a few bills and passed them to Lydia. “You'll need clothes for a rainy climate,” he said. “I'll make arrangements at the desk for a room to be prepared, and you can spend the day as you like. Just have your meals and anything else you want billed to me.” With that, Mr. Quade pushed back his chair, stood, and after a polite nod, walked away.

Lydia briefly considered ordering another breakfast, remembered the money lying on the table, and gathered it up.

Surely it was improper to accept funds from a man, not to mention a hotel room and food, but Mr. Quade had not made any unseemly demands. He clearly did not expect her to take up residence in his chambers, and he had been the soul of good manners from the very inception of their acquaintance.

Lydia folded the bills carefully and tucked them into her skirt pocket. Then, barely able to contain the sudden surge of energy that possessed her, she finished her coffee, rose, and left the dining room with sweeping dignity.

At the desk the clerk was deferential. Yes, quarters had been reserved for a Miss Lydia McQuire. He handed her a key and told her that Room 10 would be ready in half an hour.

“Thank you,” Lydia said. It wasn't until she reached the sidewalk out front that she gave a cry of glee and did a little jig. The doorman looked at her suspiciously but offered no comment.

For a long moment she couldn't decide which way to go. She could simply disappear, after all—Mr. Quade had given her enough money to last for weeks, if she lived frugally—or she could have an adventure. It was an enormous risk, of course, traveling to Washington Territory with a stranger, becoming his bride, no less, but Lydia believed in bold undertakings. That was why she'd assisted her father in those dreadful field hospitals during the war, and it was the reason she had come to San Francisco with Mrs. Hallingsworth, seeking a new start in life.

Lydia headed toward the two-story mercantile on the next corner, and there was a little spring in her step now because she'd eaten and she had money and she had a future, uncertain and dangerous though it might be. Furthermore, for the first time in a month, she didn't have to worry about finding a place to sleep or having enough food to sustain her.

There would undoubtedly be challenges, but she would handle those one at a time, as they presented themselves. There was no sense, as her father had often told her, in letting one's mind get ahead into next week, next month, or next year. Better to plant oneself firmly in the moment and make the best of whatever mightH be offered.

Lydia bought several sensible dresses at the mercantile, along with a hooded cloak for the rainy climate Mr. Quade had mentioned and several sturdy pairs of shoes. She yearned for the pretty satin dancing slippers on display, but practicality wouldn't allow the purchase, even though she could have afforded it. She bought warm underwear, and stockings, and two modest flannel nightgowns. Her own things, stashed in a trunk in the storeroom of the supper club where she played piano, were hardly worth going back for. Because of the stringencies of the war, she had not had a new garment in five years, and everything she possessed was worn thin and painfully out of fashion.

That last thought made Lydia chuckle. When had she, daughter of the well-intentioned but chronically impoverished Dr. Wilkes McQuire, ever concerned herself with fashion? Her one luxurious purchase was a book—she'd read the volumes tucked away in her trunk until the pages of most of them were coming loose from their bindings. Still flush with money, Lydia returned to the hotel and marched herself bravely up to Room 10.

The chamber proved to be very spacious, with a large mahogany-framed bed, a settee and chairs upholstered in spotless blue taffeta, and a white marble fireplace. On the mantel stood a crystal vase filled with spring flowers.

Charmed, Lydia closed the door with her foot, set her packages carefully on the settee, and stood in front of the fireplace, touching a blossom thoughtfully. There were red and yellow zinnias, pert daisies, irises and tulips and crocuses, creating an explosion of color made double by the reflection in the mirror above the mantel.

Lydia was not accustomed to such luxuries, and their sudden appearance in her life was overwhelming. It seemed incredible that, only a few hours before, she had been faced with a choice between two such basic needs as food and shelter.

Now she was ensconced in a fancy hotel room, with money to spend, new clothes to wear, a book to read, and a kitchen staff virtually at her beck and call.

She made her way to a chair and sat down, frowning. If there was one thing life had taught her, it was that everything had a price. Sooner or later an accounting would have to be made.

Lydia closed her eyes and held fast to the arms of the chair. It was possible that Mr. Quade wasn't the gentleman he seemed; he could be a procurer. Perhaps she was bound for some backwards harem, or even an opium den in the Orient!

She sighed, opened her eyes.

It was also possible, she concluded, with some, relief, that she would simply end up in a sturdy log cabin somewhere in the timberlands to the north, keeping house for Devon Quade. She would live out her life in peace, raising three or four children along the way, and then it would be over and the world would go right on as if she'd never existed at all.

Hardly comforted, and no less confused for all her deliberations, Lydia rose with resolution and explored her surroundings. There was a small room reserved for bathing and other hygienic necessities, and after careful thought, she turned up the gas jet beneath the huge tank over the bathtub. While the water heated, Lydia unwrapped her parcels and laid out all her new things on the bed, as much to admire as to choose what to wear. She had bought nothing frivolous, just plain, practical, woolly things, but she felt rich and dissolute all the same. This must be what it was like to be a kept woman, she decided.

Finally, after an hour, Lydia turned a spigot on the tank in the bathroom and warm water began to flow into the tub. She hastily undressed, enjoyed a luxurious soak, something she had not had since before the war, then scrubbed her body and shampooed her hair.

When she climbed out of her bath, she felt like a woman resurrected and restored to glory. She dried her hair, combed out the tangles, and put on fresh new underthings and a prim gray-and-white-striped dress with a high collar. With this, she wore new stockings, ribbed and scratchy, and a pair of plain black shoes. She stuffed her old things into the trash basket in the bathing room.

By that time, Lydia was getting hungry again. She dined in the same restaurant where she and Mr. Quade had taken breakfast—there wasn't a sign of him anywhere about—then set out for the supper club where her trunk was stored.

Jim, the bartender, was in the rear storeroom, unpacking a crate of Irish whiskey, when Lydia came in through the door leading into the alley. He grinned and gave a low whistle of appreciation when he saw her new clothes.

“Well, then, Miss McQuire,” he said. “What's happened to you? Have the Little People taken a liking to you?”

Lydia smiled. “It would seem that they have. I'm going north, to Seattle, where I'm to be the bride of a lumberman.”

Jim's wise eyes seemed troubled. He was a solidly built man, middle-aged, with brown hair parted in the center and a thick mustache. “I see. Well, you want to be careful about these bride-buyers, miss. We've had some scandals where such matters are concerned.”

Lydia had no doubt that Jim's words were true as the peal of a silver bell, but she couldn't stay in San Francisco, living from hand to mouth, never knowing where she would sleep when night descended or when she would have her next meal. Fate had offered her an opportunity, and she had to take it, even if there was some risk.

“I'll be careful,” she promised softly, making the vow to herself as well as to Jim. It hurt to realize that even if she should travel to Seattle and then disappear into the dregs of immorality, no one would miss her. Probably there wouldn't even be anyone to ask, “Whatever happened to Doc McQuire's girl?”

“You've come for your trunk, then,” Jim said, with resignation.

“There are only a few books and personal items I want,” Lydia said. “Maybe you could give out the rest where you see a need.”

The bartender nodded. “Need is one thing I see plenty of,” he replied.

Without further conversation, Lydia climbed the plank steps to the loft of the storeroom and opened her trunk, which stood in one corner. She was not sorry to leave behind the calico and wool dresses—the memories attached to them were not pleasant ones, since she'd worn them in army hospitals and wrung the blood from their frayed hems like wash water from a rag. She wanted the keepsake photographs of her father and mother, though, as well as the tarnished bronze medal given her by a dying soldier, her journals, her grandmother's mourning ring, and the letters. Lydia tied all her treasures inside a scarf, closed the trunk lid, and descended the stairs with her bundle.

There was no sign of Jim, and she was not really surprised. He had been a good friend, but saying goodbye would be too awkward for them both.

Lydia turned to the slate on the wall, where Jim wrote lists of goods he needed to order for the saloon, took up the nubbin of chalk, and wrote,
THANK YOU
.

Then she returned to the hotel, taking the long route, so she could get a last look at San Francisco. Only a few short weeks ago, she reflected with a sigh, she'd had high hopes for the city crescented around the bay. She'd planned to take rooms in some decent, respectable house and to start a music school. Now it seemed her destiny lay elsewhere, after all, in a land of timber and savages and men who wore plaid shirts and spiked boots.

The doorman at the Federal Hotel eyed Lydia carefully as she walked past him, this time keeping her chin high, his gaze falling on her pitiful little bundle of worldly possessions. Lydia clutched her belongings closer to her bosom and proceeded into the lobby.

That night, she dined with Mr. Quade in a restaurant renowned for beefsteak, and he took her to see a melodrama in a clapboard theater with a sawdust floor.

Lydia began to wonder when the marriage ceremony would take place, whether she and Mr. Quade would exchange vows there in San Francisco or up north, in Seattle. Since she wasn't particularly anxious for the duties that would come after the wedding, she kept her curiosity to herself and simply let events unfold as they would.

The next day, her future husband didn't put in an appearance at all until dinner, when he seemed harried and distracted. Lydia had spent some of her precious funds to take a carriage tour of the city, and she'd had her palm read by a Gypsy at the waterfront as well. Since she'd deduced from Mr. Quade's manner that he wouldn't care to hear about any of those things, she kept her accounts to herself.

The following morning, when the sun was winking on the waters of the bay, as bright and new as if it had never risen before, Mr. Quade collected his bride and her purchases and they set off for the waterfront by carriage.