We have settled into a routine, my tiny daughters and I. After Henry leaves for the bank in the morning, and before Mama and L’Amie stir from bed, I bundle the girls against the damp fog and leave our house on Jones Street. Ellie’s face is wrapped so only her round blue eyes are exposed. Marion jumps up and down with excitement, her blond ringlets bouncing.
“Don’t jump so, Mary,” I scold, but there is no heat in my words.
“Come on, Mama, the sun is pushing the fog away!”
“Come on, Mama,” her little sister mimics.
Stepping out our front door, I look north and south along the street. Our white picket fence edges Jones Street, and our nearest neighbors are the Martins, just across Lombard. Three-year-old Ellie likes to look at the Martins’ horses, so we head in that direction. I take one daughter by each hand, and we walk slowly toward Lombard, matching our pace to Ellie’s stubby legs.
The sun momentarily loses its battle with the fog, and gray tendrils float above us. On the steep side of Lombard, some of the Italian immigrants are building new homes with fancy ornamental woodwork, but I prefer the formal lines of the stately homes that are already here, surrounded by their park-like gardens.
Five-year-old Marion lets go of my hand and hurries forward, not quite running because she knows I disapprove of running. I let her go, knowing how she loves the view from the corner. Looking down steep Lombard Street, the cold breeze blowing off the San Francisco Bay chills our faces. In the distance, the bay stretches to the east, a deeper shade of blue-gray than the fog above. Ellie burrows deeper into her wool coat. Marion throws her head back and laughs, the cold reddening her cheeks and nose. I shake my head and smile, refusing to dampen an independent spirit.
The view up Russian Hill, away from the ocean, is more fascinating to me. With my back to the ocean, I marvel at the steep road rising before us. No horse drawn conveyances are moving up Lombard Street this morning. Marion is disappointed, but manages to create drama nonetheless.
“Only brave horses try to go up the hill, Ellie,” she tells her sister. “The hill is so steep that sometimes the carriage pulls the horse backwards all the way down!” Her hands swoop toward the bay, illustrating the path of a fateful carriage. Ellie’s eyes widen to blue saucers.
“Mary, that’s enough,” I say. “You’re scaring your sister.”
It’s a chilly enough morning that the girls are soon ready to return home. I send them to the kitchen for cocoa with the serving girl. Mama and L’Amie wander downstairs for breakfast, and we eat together.
“Coming to the meeting today?” L’Amie asks me.
I haven’t been to a meeting of the local women’s club since I overheard gossip that the president of Wells Fargo has warned my husband he may lose his job. I am too afraid to learn that it’s true. “Not today. I have a lot to do.” I can’t meet my sister’s eyes.
“You’re missing more than you’re attending,” she complains.
“Now, L’Amie, your sister is a wife and mother. Her focus is different than yours,” Mama chides.
L’Amie is not satisfied, but she subsides. And she goes to the meeting alone.
That evening, the girls play with their dolls on the floor of the parlor. Mama and L’Amie sit nearby, chatting. The fire blazes in the hearth, and I sit mending one of Marion’s underskirts. L’Amie holds an official-looking envelope that arrived today for her. She is glowing. I raise an eyebrow at her, inquiring. She smiles at me, looks out the window, then fastens her gaze on Mama and takes a deep breath. It must be a letter from the medical school in New York that she has applied to. I hope she is accepted, but my heart pines already.
“Mama, I have something to tell you.” My sister waves the envelope. “It’s a letter of acceptance from New York.”
Mama freezes. Recovering, she smiles at L’Amie. “I really am quite proud of you, sweetheart. When do you leave?”
L’Amie and I stare at each other in shock. Mama has resisted this moment for ten years.
“Oh come now, girls,” Mama chides. “I am quite proud of your independence, you know. Besides, I like the idea of having a doctor in the house.”
L’Amie’s enthusiasm spills over then, and she fills us with her plans for the trip East, for her living and schooling arrangements, for the curriculum of this school brave enough to educate women in the field of medicine.
When Henry arrives home, we fall silent. I’m not sure if the temperature of the room is chilled more by the wind that sneaks in when he opens the door or by Henry’s cold formality.
“Good evening, my dear,” he says.
“Good evening,” I respond, rising to take his coat and hat while he settles into his chair by the fire.
The serving girl scurries to pour him a drink, and I frown in spite of myself. His drinking has increased so that he almost always has a fresh one in his hand. Could that have anything to do with his job situation?
“Is everything well with you?” I ask.
He looks at me for a long moment, his handsome face sober. Although his brown hair is thin, he has a dashing thick mustache and lively dark eyes. He dresses well, as befits his position, and tends to draw a lady’s eye. Tonight, however, he seems in no mood for frivolity. My stomach clenches as I remember a similar conversation with Jacob ten years earlier.
“Well enough, I suppose,” he says in a tone that tells me it’s not well at all. “If you call being dismissed for no cause well.”
“Dismissed? Oh, dear.” So it’s true. Mama and L’Amie quietly exit the room, taking the girls with them.
“The people at the bank are too concerned with image to do business the way it should be done. It will be all right, though. I have decided to develop our land in Santa Cruz. It’s perfect for a logging operation and paper mill, and I seem to be free at the moment.” He forces a laugh.
Panic threatens my composure. Will he dare suggest I stay here in the city with the girls? “When do we leave?” I ask, hoping to dissuade any idea of abandoning us.
Another long look nearly rattles my nerves to dust. I will my hands to sit calmly in my lap and not clench my skirts.
“Can you pack the household by the end of the week?”
Of course I can if it means not being left behind again.
* * *
By the time we are settled in our home on Union Street, it is fall, the best time of year in Santa Cruz. The seaside fog disappears with the summer, and October is much nicer than July. Our yard contains an almond tree and an apple tree, both ready to harvest. I look forward to seeing them bare in winter, full of blossoms in spring and growing fruit in summer.
Henry thrives in the lumber business, disappearing every morning on horseback for the San Lorenzo Paper Mill, on the river of the same name. Every twenty-four hours the mill produces 150 reams of butcher paper, which is in great demand in San Francisco.
Henry brings me out to the mill almost at once, leaving the girls in the care of my mother, who came along from San Francisco to see us settled. The mill is a rough place, although the setting is tranquil. The forest crowds close, and the river rushes by. Henry’s men have rigged a dam with tree trunks, constructed so that large trees and debris can flow over without breaking it. I congratulate him on his cleverness, both thrilled and cowed by the sheer ferocity of the operation.
That winter I am more content than at any time in my life. Mama has gone back to live with Coelia. L’Amie has finally gone East to medical school. Although I miss her dreadfully, I am very proud of her. I manage my own household, and do it well. I begin to teach Marion her letters, and I read to Ellie as she cuddles in my lap. Henry whistles a jaunty tune while he readies himself for work.
December brings a series of fierce Pacific storms that batter the coast, trying to rip Santa Cruz off the Earth and drown it beneath the sea. The San Lorenzo River floods, bringing its banks to the very edge of Mission Hill, where we live, and damaging many businesses in the downtown area near the Lower Plaza. The Sentinel reports that a barn washed right out to sea, still in its upright position!
After tossing and turning to the accompaniment of nature’s crescendo one January night, I am awakened by a kiss on my forehead, his luxurious mustache tickling my skin. Still dreaming, I murmur, “Jacob.”
A sharp exclamation replaces the soft warmth of the kiss.
I force my eyes open and my brain to awareness. Henry paces the room, fully dressed. He checks his pocket watch without looking at me. “Ellen, I must go to the mill.”
I wipe sleep remnants from my eyes and nod. He is desperate to assess the damage from the storm that has kept him home since before the new year. Stiff and tired from a night disrupted by storms, I listen. The wind still howls outside our snug home, but the rain doesn’t slam against the windows.
Henry stops before me, places his watch back in its pocket and puts his hands on his hips. The clock in the parlor strikes, but my husband’s stern face captures my attention so I can’t count the tolling bells.
“How many children must we have before you stop calling his name in your sleep?”
“I’m sorry.” Normally I would rise and walk him to the door, but I am so tired. When I close my eyes for a moment, the room tilts. “I think I’ll sleep a little longer,” I tell him without opening my eyes.
“Pleasant dreams,” he snarls.
I hear the creak of the third stair, then the front door clicking shut. Now that I’m awake, guilt prevents me from falling back to sleep. Henry is a good man. He deserves my heart, but I gave it away long ago. I rise from bed and don a gown. I move slowly although I do not think I am ill.
Later I retire to the parlor, where I remove my knitting from a basket kept by the fire. I can knit and think about how to cheer Henry tonight. Maybe the cook can make his favorite vanilla almond cake for tonight’s dessert. My guilt stabs me. It’ll mean more if I make it. My knitting falls to my lap.
Our daughters play on the floor, quarreling quietly, moods matched to the weather. Moisture is in the air; the window panes are sweating. Another storm moves closer. Fresh rain pelts the windows as a sharp rap at the door draws me from my thoughts.
I rise and answer. On the stoop a mill worker has removed his hat and is shaking droplets to the boards below. Something about his expression... Dread descends on me and I feel the blood leave my face. Visions of a telegram ten years old haunt me. Jacob killed in mining accident. My deepest condolences.
“Mrs. VanValkenburgh?” the mill worker says, twisting the sodden bowler in his hands. He has trouble keeping his eyes to mine. Swallowing, he barrels on, “The mill sent me ma’am. There’s been an accident—I’m so sorry.”
“What are you saying!” I shout at him. If I have the courage to hear it, he should have the courage to say it.
“I’m so sorry. We was cuttin’ a tree ma’am. It fell wrong ... A branch hit Mr. VanValkenburgh ... He’s dead, ma’m...”
I am unable to respond, and he slinks away into the storm. For several minutes, I listen as the rain patters on the porch roof. Then I shut the door and lean my head against the painted wood.
Jacob and I were married a year—two months of bliss and ten months of waiting. Then the telegram. With Henry I had eight years and two daughters. In the eyes of some, the second marriage was more successful. To me, it makes no difference. I am once again widowed.
Gradually the sound of my daughters arguing over something trivial draws me back. I stagger to the parlor. For a moment I have no words. “Mary, Ellie.” My soft voice silences them. “Darlings, your father will not be coming home tonight. We’ll have our supper without him.”
“Will he be home in time to kiss us goodnight, Mama?” Marion asks, her brow furrowed. Her father is never late.
“No, Mary, he won’t.” I don’t want to have this conversation now. Three-year-old Ellie stares at me, her blue eyes as wide as the ocean. Marion is still trying to puzzle out my words.
The serving girl comes from the kitchen to see who was at the door. “It seems I am not meant to be a married woman,” I tell her. She gasps and gathers the children, taking them off to the kitchen as I watch the rain pound the window. There will be no vanilla almond cake ever again for Henry.
Within days, Mama arrives and takes over the running of the house. I wander aimlessly from room to room, feeling sorry for myself. One morning Mama finds me in Henry’s den, staring out the window.
“Ellen, you must busy yourself with something,” she scolds. “Isn’t there a meeting you can go to?”
She has taken upon herself everything that used to fill my time, but she means well. “Yes, Mama,” I murmur.
Pursing her lips in frustration, she glares at me. “You look too imposing.”
A small, pretty woman, Mama takes after her Day family relatives in New York. I have inherited the beaked nose of my father and the square build of a pioneer woman. Clad in black that is once again mourning, I suppose I am indeed imposing.
“Maybe Uncle Benjamin has room for you and the girls.”
She can’t be serious. Even so, I am jolted out of my self-pity into a course of action I have only begun to contemplate. “Mama, I need to run the mill. I will go in tomorrow and set it to rights.”
Her face pales to the shade of the new moon. “Run the mill?” she says weakly.
The next morning I pin my black hat securely and don my coat and gloves. Kissing the girls goodbye, I wave to Mama and climb into the carriage. Having decided upon this course of action, I’m not even nervous. The mill cannot run itself, and there’s no one else.
My husband’s office is occupied by a bearded man in dirty pants, his suspenders hanging loose. I sweep in and demand he vacate. He hurries to pull up the suspenders and leave Henry’s chair, but he stands firm.
“What can I do for you, Mrs. VanValkenburgh?”
I remove my hat and gloves, placing them on the desk. I hang my coat on the rack and turn to face him. “I will need to meet with the mill foreman this morning.” I seat myself at the desk and scan the open ledger atop it. I don’t actually see any of the numbers written there as I wait for his response.
“Ma’am?” Clearly he’s confused. “I’m the foreman.”
I look up. “Then you are Samuel. Please gather the men. I wish to speak with them.”
He still looks confused as I return my eyes to the ledger, and it’s hard to hide a smile. Sixty men currently work for me. The plant is valued at $100,000, paper orders are strong, and production running well.
Samuel returns in an hour. He’s doing a better job of masking his confusion. “The men are assembled, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Samuel.”
I sweep out of the room only to realize I don’t know where my workers are. Samuel hastens ahead of me. Outside in the January chill my mill workers stand in loose groups. Some are curious, but most are irritated they have been pulled away from their posts. I step up on the wooden walkway that rings the building. It’s not a stage, but it puts me two steps above them.
“Good morning. I am Ellen VanValkenburgh, and I will be taking over my husband’s duties here at the mill. I will relay my orders to you through Samuel.” I nod to the foreman, whose face has gone as white as New York snow. “I expect the operation to continue to run smoothly. You may return to your posts.”
No one moves for a long moment, and I expect rebellion. Instead, I get snorts of surprise, shaking heads, and bursts of decidedly negative conversation. The men do not look happy as they trudge back to work. I suppose I should be pleased I had no hoots of derision or outright defiance. Still looking after the last of the departing men, I address the foreman next to me.
“I want you to go over the books with me, Samuel.”
“Yes, ma’am.” His face and tone are carefully neutral. He’s had time to adjust. The others will come around.
The rest of the day is spent in Henry’s office, now mine, going over the operation with Samuel. At his suggestion, I call in the shift supervisors of each operation. I start with the end of the process and work backwards. The cocky man who runs the cutting and packaging of the paper rolls for shipment by rail to San Francisco and beyond clearly sees this meeting with me as an unnecessary delay. Samuel introduces him, but lets him describe his duties.
“It’s as the title says. I cut and package the paper.”
His tone is one I’d use with the girls. My eyes narrow. “I’m sure you’d like to get back to it. I appreciate your time.” Conciliatory rather than confrontative. I need these men.
The next supervisor is garrulous, almost afraid to let me talk. He makes himself comfortable in the chair facing my desk as he goes on and on. “We take the pulp, ma’am and rinse it, then dilute it with good San Lorenzo river water, and then add some clay. Pump all that into the headbox of the paper machine where the water is drained away…”
I nod and smile, but I can’t follow all he says. I find I’m not interested in the minute details of making paper.
When Samuel brings in the next man, my eyes water at the chlorine smell. He’s our pulp bleacher, and I’m glad he is reticent. I can’t maintain my dignity when my nose is twitching.
By comparison, the supervisor of pulping is practically mute. I sneak a glance at Samuel, wondering if he’s done this on purpose, and catch a smile twitching on his face.
“We remove lignin.”
“You do. And what is lignin?”
“Glue. Holds wood together.”
“Why don’t we want it?”
“Discolors paper.”
My questions are clearly torture, but I extract the information before sending him on his way. While Samuel’s fetching the last of the supervisors, I allow myself a wide grin. I’m smiling when I hear voices outside the office, but the smile evaporates when the men enter. Samuel has brought the man who notified me of Henry’s death. He stands much as did on my front porch, but this time he does not have his hat in his hand.
“Good afternoon,” I say softly.
He’s determined to say his piece and get out. “I am in charge of logging. We cut the pines and take them by wagon to the mill. Crew takes off the bark and runs ‘em through the chipper.”
I don’t really hear his words. I’m fixated on the image of this man watching as a falling tree branch kills my husband.
I’m unaccountably tired when I return home.
Mama greets me with disapproval. “Are you finished playing the man of the house?”
“The mill is our livelihood, Mama.”
“Maybe so, but a good foreman can run it. Your place is here.”
I move through the entry into the parlor, where Marion and Ellie greet me with hugs and kisses, saving me from having to answer. Mama’s right. My place is here with my daughters. It’s now my responsibility, however, to provide for them. That means my place is also at the mill.
By the end of the week, exhaustion is my constant companion. I hide it from the men at the mill, who must see me as competent, and I hide it from my mother, who must see me as coping, and I hide it from the girls, who must see me as loving. I attribute my fatigue to managing the mill. One morning, though, I am unable to keep down my breakfast and realization dawns. I am with child.
San Lorenzo Paper Mill, Santa Cruz, California, circa 1861
Photograph from the Lawrence & Houseworth Collection, Bancroft Library, UC Berkeley