Washington, DC
One Year Later
Frieda carried a black mourning dress into the bedroom. With one look, Josephine knew she could not put it on.
Not today.
Not on the day of Papa’s homecoming. She would not greet him wearing black.
“Take it away, Frieda,” she said. “And please bring me the green velvet.”
Frieda put her hands on her hips and gave Josephine a well-honed look.
Josephine shook her head. “Take that horrible death-dress away, I say.”
“I will not,” Frieda said. “You are still in mourning. If you come downstairs wearing anything but black, your mother will faint dead away, and you’ll have her to mourn too.”
Josephine bypassed her maid and entered the dressing room that housed her many gowns—beautiful, lush dresses befitting the daughter of General Reginald Cain. She perused the line of gowns until she found the one that suited her mood. “Here. This one.” It was an evening dress of lush velvet.
Frieda’s head shook left, then right, in a stubborn no. “It is simply not proper, Liebchen. You are to mourn your brother and cousin a full year, and then wear a deep violet—”
“I shall mourn them a year,” she said. “I shall mourn Thomas and William the rest of my life. But not today, please not today. I’ve just spent the entire afternoon sitting with Mother and Aunt Bernice, staring at the walls. I’ve done my duty. This evening is meant to celebrate Papa’s return—even if he is leaving again.” She looked back to the mirror, hoping Frieda would let her break the rule of etiquette just this once. “I won’t complain about wearing black for a whole month.”
“Well . . .”
Josephine kissed her cheek. “It will make Papa so happy. You’ll see.”
“You have always been your father’s pet.”
It was true. They shared a closeness that belied the time they had spent apart during the four long years of war, and this last year of post-war rebuilding. They both loved learning and adventure, and they shared an exhilaration about life’s possibilities.
Unlike Mother.
Although Josephine loved her mother, their interests were as far apart as black and white, up and down, North and South. Always a homebody, Mother had planted even deeper roots since Thomas was killed.
Frieda interrupted her thoughts. “Come now. Since you have won the skirmish, let us get this gown on you.”
Frieda Schultz was Papa’s unmarried cousin. She had lived with the Cains for as long as Josephine could remember, first as her nanny and then as her lady’s maid. Josephine loved her maid more than she loved her mother. She had certainly spent more time with Frieda, who had virtually raised her from birth and schooled her in reading, writing, and other important lessons of life. Mother might have run the household, but Frieda had run the children’s lives, and both Josephine and Thomas had looked to her for maternal nourishment. It was backward to what she knew she should feel, but so it was.
But then a year ago the balance of the household had shifted permanently when they had received news that Thomas and cousin William had been killed in the final days of the war. Aunt Bernice moved in, and suddenly, daily, Josephine was asked to sit with her mother and aunt as they grieved. During those interminable hours, Josephine felt as if she were dying a slow death.
The dress on, Josephine relished the feel of the luxurious fabric against her skin. She walked up and back, enjoying how the weight of the skirt swayed back and forth like a bell when she walked, embodying the grace and elegance of womanhood. It felt so good to wear something pretty again. If only Mother would allow her to go out and socialize . . . How was she supposed to find a husband while held prisoner in her own home?
Or didn’t Mother care? She often wondered whether Mother liked the notion of Josephine remaining by her side forever. Till death do us part.
That was not acceptable. Josephine wanted a husband, a house, a family . . . all the things girls her age dreamed about. Between the restrictions of mourning and the distressing fact that the pool of young marriageable men was sadly smaller, Josephine longed for something exceptional to burst into her life, take her breath away, and make her happy.
Happiness wasn’t a bad thing, was it? Wasn’t this country founded on the principle that its citizens had the right to the “pursuit of happiness”?
The clock on the mantel struck five. Papa’s train was arriving in Washington this very hour, and he would be home for dinner. And then . . .
She was more than ready to talk with him about her plan.
Josephine turned to Frieda. “Will he be pleased?”
Frieda kissed her forehead. “How could he be otherwise?”
Josephine descended the stairs and braced herself.
As expected, her mother and aunt were seated at either side of the fireplace in the parlor, two she-bears enshrouded in dark mantles. Only their plump faces and short fingers provided Josephine’s eyes some relief from the color of death. Even their palms were covered in black fingerless gloves. They existed in this state of near-hibernation, exuding an unspoken warning for others to stay away: Do not disturb. Our growl is as fierce as our bite.
Josephine paused outside the doorway in an attempt to ignite a spark of courage. She didn’t wish to offend by her choice of dress, but the truth was, wearing mourning would not bring the boys back, nor would it erase the sadness that gnawed at her heart. Josephine prayed that someday sorrow’s teeth would be worn down, lessening its sting.
She looked down at her dress, adjusting the neckline to properly cover her bosom so she would cause the least offense. Her gold bracelet sparkled in the candlelight, and she held her hand in midair, second-guessing her choice to dress up for Papa’s homecoming.
Dowd, their butler, entered the foyer behind her left shoulder. “Miss Josephine?”
She was forced to follow through with her intent. “Papa should be here any moment, Dowd. Please make sure everything is ready for his arrival.”
“We are well prepared, miss.” His eyes traveled the length of her dress, as if to imply that she was not.
Hadn’t Papa seen enough death and mourning? Surely he would be happy to see his daughter—his one and only surviving child—at her prettiest. Especially since he’d been gone for two months in the Nebraska territory working on an enormous new project, a railroad that would someday connect the East Coast with the West. She hoped he would appreciate her effort tonight. Even more than that, she hoped he would listen to her proposal.
Her future depended on it.
Josephine squared her shoulders and entered the bears’ den.
As if by a common decision, her mother and aunt looked up from their tea, set their cups upon their saucers with a near synchronized clink, and opened their mouths to speak.
Mother’s words came out first. “What are you wearing, Josephine? Where—”
“—is your mourning?” Aunt Bernice finished.
Josephine’s heart fluttered in her throat. “I set it aside in honor of Papa’s return.”
“There is no setting aside,” Mother said.
“One does not set aside mourning,” her aunt parroted.
Josephine moved to the apex of the womanly triangle, taking care not to venture close enough to be drawn into their lair. “I mean no disrespect for either Thomas or William. I love them and miss them as much as anyone.”
“By this action you show otherwise,” Mother said.
“Otherwise,” Aunt said, shaking her head.
How could she explain? “What is in my heart doesn’t need to be worn on my sleeve, does it? Besides, today is a day of celebration. Today, for a short while, Papa is finally ours again.”
For the briefest moment, Josephine saw her mother’s eyes clear, as if she had emerged from the well of death and glimpsed the sunlight.
Then the veil returned, and Mother sank into the pit of sorrow once again. “You must change your gown, Josephine. You will not disrespect our sacrifice.”
Aunt Bernice shook her head. “No disrespect.”
But before she could plead her case a second time, the front door opened.
“Papa!” Josephine ran into his arms, pressing her cheek against the wool of his coat. “I have missed you so much! I’m so glad you’re finally home.”
He wrapped his arms around her, and she felt his beard brush against her hair. He kissed her head. “My sweet girl. How I have missed you.”
She closed her eyes and breathed deeply the scent of him: the musk that had always been his special scent, and the hint of cigar smoke and manly work that was Papa.
He gently pushed her back, taking her hands in his. “Let me look at you.”
Her choice to wear the green dress was brought front and center. Would he chide her for her choice?
Papa spun her under his arm, allowing the wide bell skirt a full swirl. “You take my breath away, daughter. You are a vision of beauty.”
“She is a vision of impropriety.”
Mother had left her den and stood in the doorway.
“Lizzie,” Papa said, extending his arms to her.
But Mother shook her head and took a step back. “I wish you would do something about your daughter, Reginald. For her to wear a party dress when we are in mourning, and more than that, the dress she wore the night the president was shot.”
Josephine drew in a breath and looked down at the dress. Her memories rushed back. This was the dress she had worn on that dreadful night.
The president of the United States had been assassinated while Josephine watched, while she envied Clara Harris for sharing the presidential box. Josephine still suffered the guilt of her frivolous nature.
But more was lost that night than their president. With the assassination, Josephine’s faith faltered. For how could the Almighty allow such a thing to happen to so great a man? Especially when peace had just been achieved.
The president’s death had marked the beginning of her family’s descent into sorrow. As the nation grieved President Lincoln, the Cains received news of the deaths of their boys. Thomas had died in the last days of the war at Sayler’s Creek, and William had died in a Confederate prisoner-of-war camp. With that news, Josephine’s mother and aunt had donned their bereavement black and had silently declared their own lives over but for the bothersome breath in their bodies.
Josephine was drawn out of her memories by Papa’s voice. “Actually, I am relieved to see some color. With more than six hundred thousand dead, the entire nation is wearing black. Enough, I say. It is time to move forward.”
Mother shook her head. “We must not forget the past.”
“We must not forget, but we must not let it drown us.” He looked at Josephine, as if his next words were mostly for her. “As I hinted at in my last letter, I have good news. I have been officially offered the position to oversee the construction of the Union Pacific rail lines as they head west across the Nebraska territory.” His shoulders straightened as if his next statement were especially important. “Work on the railroad has already begun in California, heading east, and I am to supervise the construction heading west. I have some business to attend to here in Washington, but then I shall be leaving again.”
Josephine took a deep breath. If everything goes as I’ve planned, I shall be going with you.
Mother shuddered. “You are a general, not a railroad worker.”
“I am not a general anymore, Lizzie. That duty is done.”
Aunt Bernice offered the next hurdle. “You are a lawyer.”
Papa waved his hand. “I was a lawyer, as I was a general. There are enough lawyers in Washington. Besides, since the war, the soldiers have gone home to reclaim their lives, and many need jobs. The railroad will provide those jobs. I am used to soldiers, and they are used to me. It’s a good match. And now, to be chosen to oversee such an important task . . . it is an honor. And it would be a continuation of the president’s dream.”
Mother shook her head. “But the West, Reginald. It is so very . . . west.”
He looked to the floor. “That it is. The line starts in Omaha and will not end until it connects with the Central Pacific’s line coming east from Sacramento. They have been laying track for eighteen months. We have barely started. There is much at stake for the line that lays the most. Compensation, land, property. And power.”
Mother shook her head, her expression heavy with distaste. “So you’re battling again? West versus East? Hasn’t this country seen enough battles between North and South?”
He cocked his head as though he’d never thought of it in that manner. “This is not a war, my dear, but a competition. The United States thrives on competition. It brings out our best. And it brings about progress.”
Aunt Bernice’s eyebrows rose, as if she were considering his words. “The West always intrigued my George. The thought of unknown worlds . . .”
“Men,” Mother said. Her tone suggested the species was deplorable.
Papa turned to look at his wife. “If it were not for the ambition and vision of men, this country would still consist of thirteen colonies under British rule.”
“That is true,” Aunt conceded.
Mother flashed her sister a look and then led her back to their chairs by the fireplace.
Good riddance. Josephine linked her arm in Papa’s. “May I speak with you, please? I have something important to talk to you about.”
His eyebrows rose. “Is everything all right?”
“Well, of course . . . actually . . . not really.” She sighed deeply. “If we might go to your study? Alone?”
Before he could answer, Dowd announced that dinner was served. As they moved toward the dining room, Papa leaned close and whispered to his daughter, “We will talk after dinner.”
“Good, because what I have to say is really important and—”
He put a finger to his lips, then left Josephine in order to escort his wife in to dine.
Throughout dinner, Josephine’s thoughts strayed from the table conversation to the one she would be having after dinner. She must convince Papa to take her with him rather than abandon her to life with the she-bears.
Had they not been separated long enough? He’d already been gone for much of the war, and now he would be off again, his focus turned from battles to railroads.
They had always been close, closer even than Papa had been to Thomas. Josephine was the one to listen to Papa’s stories and lessons, and her fondest memories involved sitting on his knee and playing with his beard while listening to his mellow bass voice. Thomas did not have the patience nor the interest to sit still and listen to anyone, much less Papa. When the South seceded from the Union and war was declared, Thomas had been in his element. She’d never seen her brother happier than when he’d stood before them in his Union blues, ready to leave for battle. Thomas was born to be a soldier.
And died one.
She shook the thought away, causing the footman to think she was rejecting another helping of yams.
So be it. She didn’t feel like eating anyway. She wanted time with Papa. How would he respond to her idea? She set aside her fork and felt inside the waistband of her dress to assure herself that her list was still tucked away, ready to share with him. It was ready. She was ready. Beyond ready.
As she sat back in her chair, Papa gave her a questioning look. She grinned, and he offered a wink.
At the other end of the table, she caught her mother’s disapproving stare. Mother subtly pointed her fork to her plate, indicating Josephine needed to eat. The stare did not dissipate until Josephine took up her fork, stabbed a yam, and brought it to her mouth.
But that still was not enough for Mother. She straightened her spine, pressing her shoulders back, wanting Josephine to sit up straight. Only after she complied did Mother relinquish her to her own volition.
Dinner dragged on interminably, but finally it was done, and the she-bears were safely ensconced in the parlor. Papa invited Josephine into his study, where he took a seat behind the desk.
She sat in the leather chair across from him, suddenly nervous. What if he said no?
She was glad when he initiated the conversation. “I know some of what you have been enduring, my girl. Before I left, I tried to help your mother and Aunt Bernice move forward from their grief. But the more I tried, the more they dug in their heels. I do think they find some kind of contentment in their lives—at least I hope they do.”
“I have also tried to help them, but it is impossible when all they want me to do is sit with them in silence. They are suffering, but I am suffering too. The war ruined everything. And now I am stuck—”
“Careful, daughter. You cannot compare your loss to what the boys lost.”
Josephine sighed. She hated when her selfishness slipped into view. Of course the boys had lost more than any of them. “I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
Josephine ran her hand up and down the nap of her velvet skirt, waiting for courage. Up, back. Smooth, rough.
“You wanted to talk to me about something?”
It was now or never.
Josephine removed the folded note from her waistband and opened it.
Papa laughed. “You have always been a list-maker.”
She took no offense. But before she could get to the list, she had to tell him the core of her plan. “I want to go out west with you.”
He sat back in his chair with a gentle outlay of breath. “Go with me. While I work on the railroad.”
She held her list front and center. “Number one. I miss you—and you miss me. Out west we can be together.”
“You hit the element of sentiment first, I see.”
With good reason. “Number two, and I mean no disrespect, but I am suffocating here.”
She did not like it when he only shrugged, so she pressed on. “Number three. Seeing new country will be an education. You have shared some of what you’ve seen in your letters, but it is not the same as experiencing it firsthand. You have always been the one to teach me about the world, Papa. All Mother seems concerned about is whether I wear the proper gloves at the proper time, whether I play Chopin without mistakes, or whether I read aloud her books of sermons to her satisfaction.”
“Those are worthy pursuits.”
Josephine stifled the urge to roll her eyes. “Not compared with seeing history being made. With you. Out west.”
He smiled. “I am curious to hear number four—if there is a number four.”
This was the weakest reason. “You were going to let me go to Europe alone.”
“Not alone. With Thomas and William. And Cousin Frieda.”
She had expected that response. “But out west I will be with you.”
“The Nebraska and Wyoming territories are not Europe, Josephine.”
“Of course not, but . . .” She set the list on her lap. “Please, Papa. I need to get away from here.”
“Need is a strong word.”
“It’s an apt word. Please let me go with you. Let me witness some good being done in this country. Let me see people working together again.”
He put a hand to his face, stroking his beard. She held her breath.
“I would love to have you there, but . . .”
“But I simply cannot. The land and the people are too wild.”
“I would take wild over tedious!”
“You must be reasonable, Josephine.” He swept a hand to encompass the room. “You are used to lavish surroundings, servants, fashionable dresses, and people with manners. Life in the Nebraska Territory is as straightforward as the people. Manners lose their importance out there.”
“I don’t need manners! And yes, I complained about wearing mourning, but I would wear those clothes forever if I could be with you.”
He moved around the desk and cupped her cheek with a hand. “What we have here is an impossible situation. You wish to be saved, but by saving you I put you in a volatile situation where your safety might be jeopardized.”
“But Papa, I will be all right because I will be with you.”
He dropped his hand. “Thomas was with me at Sayler’s Creek, and I could not keep him safe.”
Sorrow aged his face, and Josephine stood and wrapped her arms around him. Would they ever rid themselves of this awful grief and regret?
“Will you think about it?” she asked. “Please?”
He put his finger under her chin and looked into her eyes. “My answer is no, Josephine. I am sorry, but . . . no.”
Stunned, she took a step away from him. Hot tears pricked her eyes.
“Please don’t look at me like that.”
She ran out of his study, hiked her skirt, and raced up the stairs to her room. Once inside, she slammed the door and rushed to the fireplace where she proceeded to tear her list into little pieces and feed them to the flame.
Within seconds, Frieda came in. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
When the last piece met its death, Josephine stared into the fire.
Her life was over. Completely and utterly over.