Writing Snippet
Thought I'd share how the Miss Emily chapters are shaping up -- see if you like her as much as I do!
I stared out of the window for as long as might seem socially polite, while pretending to listen to the conversation between my mother and sisters. If I were not in the parlor of my own home, I might beg some excuse and escape. Alas, I was trapped until Mother decided our little “Girls’ Evening” was over. She remained convinced that, living alone as I did, I simply must be starving for company. Thus far, I had successfully restrained myself from informing the dear woman of the true extent of my various friendships. Many were with people she would feel beneath us socially, and even those who might be deemed acceptable enjoyed far more of my company than Mother would approve of. I might be an avowed spinster of thirty (ahem!), but I was hardly about to allow such a minor fact to curtail my social life.
However, the fact was that allowing Mother to remain ignorant of the true state of my affairs left me open to these little meetings. It wasn’t that I despised my six sisters. On the contrary, I felt nothing but affection for them, especially the youngest, Katherine, who seemed likely to follow in my own eccentric footsteps. What I tired of was their incessant chatter of men: the doings of their husbands and fiancés, the men the younger girls hoped to capture, and the general goings-on of every man in town. Just once, I should like to have a civilized conversation with my relatives about something other than the male of the species. My sisters were far from ignorant, as Father insisted that each of us attend Wellesley, yet they acted as if the world of art, music and literature were nonexistent. Our conversations revolved around society life, and any topic I might introduce was swiftly channeled back into the original discussion.
San Francisco had not changed appreciably since the last time I had allowed myself to twitch aside the curtains. The evening sky was still overcast, and a chilly-looking wind still bent the leaves of the trees lining the streets. I nodded a greeting to Mr. Seymour as he passed, walking his ridiculously tiny dog, Skittles. The Armstrong's did the same as they passed in the opposite direction, walking their exceedingly noisy youngster. With a quiet sigh, I turned back to the room, trying to appear as if I had been paying attention to Mother's voice. My sisters never seemed to have the difficulty that I did, listening to the same lectures day in and day out. Now, they nodded practically in unison as Mother finally reached the point of today's discussion, yet another lesson in the art of Man-Catching. To Mother, obtaining a suitable husband was much like a lioness stalking a careless gazelle: one must wait until the prey’s attention was distracted, and then pounce firmly.
I pasted a smile onto my face as Mother glanced my way. I suspected that she still harbored delusions that I might someday meet “the right man” and settle into married life. The fact that I would as soon marry Skittles than any of the "eligible" men in town would have shocked the poor woman into a swoon.
In fact, now that Father had set me up in my own cozy little home, my life was practically perfect. I was able to go nearly anywhere I wished, and could do almost anything I wished, within reason. If I could somehow convince Mother that she did not need to spend every Sunday evening in my parlor, my life would be complete. However, she meant well, so for her sake, I tried to pretend enjoyment of the interminable evening of sewing and gossip. Tonight, as on so many nights, the topic had come around to two of my dearest friends, Mr. Knight and Mr. Devon.
"I simply cannot understand why those young men do not settle down with a nice young lady," Alice said, holding her embroidery up to the gaslight to gauge the stitches. She exchanged one of "those" looks with Mother, and then turned to me with a smile as false as the front of Baker's Mercantile. Alice had married quite young, and was inordinately proud of the doctor she’d managed to snag. She, and the rest of my family, had always found my friendship with the two gentlemen in question puzzling in the extreme.
"Perhaps you should encourage one of them, Emily," she said now. "It may well be that they are shy, and only awaiting a sign from the right woman."
I was fortunate that I had not yet taken a sip of the coffee Barbara had just poured. The idea of Chance Knight possessing a shy bone in his body would have had me spewing the liquid over Mother's skirts. I managed to turn my giggle into a fairly credible cough and traded a knowing look with my maid. Barbara hid a smile behind one hand and turned to offer coffee to my sisters.
"I feel certain," I said, pretending an intense interest in adding just the right amount of cream to my coffee, "that Mr. Knight and Mr. Devon will settle down precisely when it suits them, and not one instant sooner." And were I asked to bet on the date of the aforementioned settling process, I would have placed my money somewhere firmly in the twentieth century, possibly around the time of the gentlemen in question's eightieth birthdays.
My family simply could not grasp the fact that a single woman could enjoy a man’s friendship without dreaming of matrimony. If they knew the true state of my affairs, I had no doubt that Father would order me back home at once, to live in some upstairs bedroom until I grew old and gray, while my sisters swooned in shock. Spinster I may be, but a shrinking virgin I most certainly am not.
The fact is, I have never understood why a woman should allow herself to be forced into what could well turn out to be a loveless marriage before she can discover what pleasure might result between herself and a like-minded male. It is my firm belief that an intelligent woman should satisfy her curiosity on such a front before even considering tying herself to one man for the rest of her life. Certainly, I availed myself of the earliest opportunity to do so, upon reaching my twentieth year without a suitable marriage proposal. Mother and Father practically shoved me at every eligible bachelor in town, and I lost no time taking advantage of their relaxed vigilance. I was fortunate that my two friends had not yet moved to San Francisco, for our friendship would have been spoiled by my parents’ avarice.
If truth must be told, once I made the acquaintance of Messrs. Knight and Devon, I discovered that my earlier experiments on the subject had been poorly conducted. My poor suitors, while I have no doubt of their ardor, fell woefully short in that department when compared to my newest friends. While Mr. Devon may be shy in the social setting, his self-confidence returned once he felt in control of the situation, and self-confidence is always helpful in most areas. Mr. Knight, as I have previously noted, did not appear to lack confidence under any circumstance. Indeed, one may easily imagine the man locked out of his house, dressed only in his Union suit, carrying on a conversation with the milkman with perfect aplomb.
These thoughts, and others of a similar vein, passed through my mind as the voices of my sisters and mother droned on in the background. Life to them was a series of duties to be fulfilled: obedience to one's parents until one could locate a suitable match, then obedience to one's husband, fulfillment of the social duties inherent to one's status, proper upbringing of one's children, and finally, when one was too old to appreciate it, one was allowed to relax and enjoy the few years one had remaining.
I had far better things to do with my time than marriage and children, thank you. Exactly what sorts of things, I had yet to explore, but I was certain they existed. It occurred to me that I had spent the past few years drifting about in a fog of social obligation myself: working with various charities, attending church and various "acceptable" social functions, spending time with my family, and amusing myself in the company of my friends. Had I allowed myself to fall into the same trap that I deplored in my sisters?
My ears pricked up as my sisters returned to one of their favorite topics of discussion: San Francisco's two most eligible bachelors. My two younger siblings still retained hopes of catching the eye of one or another of the gentlemen; either would do, apparently. I did nothing to dissuade them from their pursuit, though I could have told them that a woman who could carry on a witty conversation would attract either gentleman more than one who could produce dainty sewing stitches.
It occurred to me that perhaps my low mood was, in part, due to a longer than usual absence of my two friends from the city. When Chance and Kye were in residence, they hardly left a woman with time to brood. Their latest business trip must either be wildly more successful than expected, or the most horrific failure, for them to be gone for this long.
I was used to their sudden jaunts to Denver or parts further East, of course. Their slightly mysterious "business ventures" often required that they oversee their far-flung empire. I had yet to discover exactly what “business” the gentlemen might be in. This was not for lack of trying; Chance Knight was a master at turning aside a direct question, and prying information from his partner was like speaking to the side of a cliff. I was suddenly struck with a deep sense of frustration, and wished greatly to watch that sardonic eyebrow of Mr. Knight's shoot upward in pretended surprise, or to entice a rare smile onto Mr. Devon's face. Why I should feel so was a mystery, one which I could not help but connect somehow with my longing for my friends, as well as with the vague dissatisfaction I had been feeling these past few weeks.
The appointed hour ending our meeting eventually struck, and I saw my family out. As Barbara bustled about, tidying the room, I tried to amuse myself with the Examiner. Tonight, however, the behavior of my peers, as reported in the social column, seemed petty and mean; the news from abroad merely reminded me that I had been essentially house-bound for some years now.
Dear Barbara knew me well enough to know my usual moods. She quickly ascertained that something was amiss, and handed off the coffee tray to Bessie Ellen before coming to sit on the settee across from me.
"You've been in a mood all evening," she said.
I leaned an elbow on the arm of my chair and stared into the fireplace for a moment to collect my thoughts. “I am not quite certain why. I am not melancholy … or, at least, not entirely. Perhaps you might call it restlessness.”
A knowing smile crossed her lips and she leaned back and crossed her arms. “I was wondering how long it would take you to figure that out.”
I am afraid that I stared at my maid with open mouth, quite forgetting my manners. Barbara continued to smile in that irritating way. "You've been moping about for weeks now, Missy. I could have told you the sort of life your sisters lead wouldn't satisfy you. You're far too intelligent to settle down to a life of sewing and gossip."
"But what else is there to do?"
Barbara patted my hand. In my present ill mood, I found it vaguely patronizing, but tolerated it. Barbara had been with the family as long as I had, having been hired first as my nanny. She had raised each of us, and I suppose that would create in one a sense of motherly concern. Once I moved into my own little house, Barbara decided that a change of careers was called for, and accompanied me as lady's maid.
"We'll think of something," she said now. "I'm sure there are any number of worthy causes needing your attention."
"I am thoroughly tired of worthy causes," I retorted. "I need something to stimulate my mind. I need excitement."
We sat in thoughtful silence for several minutes, listening to the crackle of the fire and the soft ticking of the clock on the mantel. What did I want to do with my life? I could not admit that this existence was all that I could hope for.
"Perhaps you could travel," Barbara suggested. "That should provide enough excitement."
"To what purpose, though? We have seen the grand cities of Europe with Father and Mother."
"You could visit the Egyptian pyramids, then. I have always heard them described as quite exciting."
I pictured the mysterious pyramids. They would, indeed, provide excitement -- yet, afterwards, I would be forced to return home, to this same dissatisfaction I was now experiencing. "I do not think travel will suit my purpose, Barbara. I need something else, though I do not quite see what that may be."
"We will put our heads together and think of something," she repeated.
Nothing further was said on the subject until the next morning, when Barbara brandished the Morning Call as I descended the stairway.
"The classified section," she said, thrusting the paper in my direction. I took it without thinking, not yet having had my morning coffee. Seeing that I was thus handicapped, Barbara allowed me the time I needed to refresh my mind from its usual morning muddle. Once I was more alert, I turned to the newspaper section she had mentioned, but could only stare at it in bemusement.
"You're suggesting that I take a job? Barbara, I hardly need additional income."
She let out a breath in frustration. "I am pointing out that there are careers for women now. It's not the 18th Century any more, you know. You could find some sort of small job that would allow you some excitement and a sense of worth."
A sense of worth. Perhaps she was right, and that was what was missing in my life lately. I found nothing in the newspaper to encourage me, however. I found only six jobs advertising for women, and four of them were for some variety of governess. I had had little patience with my own sisters as children, and could not imagine myself spending hours in the company of any not directly related to me.
Of the remaining jobs offered, two were related to charity work and the remaining was for trained nurses. As I had no medical knowledge, I felt safe in assuming that I would not be qualified for such a position.
"I shall have to send Bessie Ellen out for more newspapers this afternoon," I mused, turning to the social section. Mrs. Pinckney was hosting another of her galas. Her parties were famous for fine food and entertainment, and anyone who aspired to be anyone in the social set vied for an invitation. I felt certain that Kye and Chance would be in attendance, although I was not so sure of my own inclusion, nor was I certain that I wished to join yet another throng of my peers and jostle to be seen.
I tossed the paper aside and rose to complete the morning's chores. As the worthy Mrs. Beeton reminded us, "As with the commander of an army, so it is with the mistress of the house." I had been blessed with a most excellent housekeeper in Mrs. Eldridge, but the prudent lady of the house kept on top of things. We went over the day's menu with Mrs. Rowell, and then consulted the cleaning schedule. Bessie Ellen, in addition to fetching my afternoon newspapers, would be helping Mrs. Eldridge polish silver and clean the china. They would, of course, also keep up with the general housework. A fine home requires constant diligence to stay ahead of the dust and soot of a bustling city.
I reluctantly left the house then, for it was my appointed visiting day. One did not simply stop calling upon one’s acquaintances and relatives, not if one did not wish to be thought of as even more eccentric than a thirty-(ahem) spinster already was. I stopped at several houses and left cards at several more whose mistresses were not at home. Throughout my journey, my mind continued to seethe over my situation, bubbling about much as a stream into which has fallen a large boulder. I knew not what I could do with my life; I only knew that I was growing more miserable with each day that passed.
Thus, it was with a sense of great relief that I came home to find a missive from my dearest friends. Bessie Ellen handed me the creamy envelope with a most un-maid-like giggle, which she quickly hid behind a hand. I ignored this, as Bessie Ellen was not only new to the job, and quite young, but had developed a most understandable infatuation with Mr. Knight. Chance had a regrettable tendency to trigger a giggle in women of a certain age.
I read my letter with pleasure. Chance and Kye had concluded their business in Denver, and were in residence at their Powell Street home for the near future. They begged the privilege of my company for dinner tonight, at Lick House. Dear Chance, the man could not resist an opportunity to make himself known to the masses. If we dined in private, how could the rest of San Francisco society realize that their favorite sons were once more available?
I wasted no time in sending my reply. Of course, Chance and Kye would have already anticipated my acceptance of their invitation, but the formalities must be observed, even among friends. I then allowed Barbara to fuss over my wardrobe as I performed my ablutions. She remained convinced that, left to my own devices, I could no more be trusted to select suitable garb than I could have as a small child. This was a blatant falsehood, however, as this distracted her from becoming overly-solicitous in other areas of my life, I made it a practice to encourage her continued interest in my attire.
Barbara did not entirely support my relationship with the two gentlemen, but at least she did not report my shenanigans to Father or Mother. Dear Barbara was loyal to her no-longer-young charge. And as both of us were older spinsters, she understood many of my needs. Neither of us cared for the idea of marriage, for example, which left her more open to the idea of the occasional paramour. I did not pry into her own private life, and she responded by turning a blind eye to the occasional unchaperoned visitor. And if I wished to spend a few hours in the home of Mssrs. Knight and Devon, Barbara might respond with a gentle scolding on “what the neighbors might say,” but she would make certain that the neighbors learned nothing from my staff.
The woman did spend entirely too much time trying to dress me in what she deemed appropriate, however. I cared not a whit if I appeared in public clothed in the same gown in which I had attended Mrs. Pettigrew’s last tea. However, I did try to give in gracefully often enough to mollify my maid, who tended to sulk if balked too frequently. This evening, Barbara had decided my blue gown should be suitable for an evening on the town. Paired with Grandmother’s pearls and my beaded handbag, I could agree that the outfit was flattering to my figure. I would trust Barbara on whether it was “acceptable.”
Lick House was one of the city’s places to see and be seen: one of our three finest hotels, with an opulent restaurant that would surely rival any in Europe. The walls were paneled in exotic woods and decorated with the sort of fine art one might expect to find in a museum. Fine carpets cushioned one’s steps, and the enormous chandeliers overhead made it possible to read the menu without additional gaslight. The room seated four hundred in elegance, and was nearly almost at capacity. I much preferred a more intimate dinner environment, but it was far too satisfying to be in the company of my friends once again.
Chance and Kye met my carriage at the curb. It seemed to be the latter’s turn to play escort, as he hurried forward to take my hand and help me down. I gave each gentleman a discrete embrace, and a chaste kiss on the cheek, before taking Kye’s arm and entering the hotel.
Were Michelangelo still living, he would have wanted to paint Chance Knight. Chance is a small man, but horrifically handsome. It must be said that the man is well aware of his effect on the opposite sex. He keeps his curly dark hair just long enough to instill a nearly irresistible urge to run one’s fingers through it, although that then means that he must habitually swipe the bangs out of his eyes in order to be able to see. His manner borders on impudent at times, although I have never noticed a recipient of his admiration making any complaints. I have not yet caught the man actually admiring his own reflection, although he is most fastidious about his appearance. The slightest bit of dust or soot that dares to alight upon his person is instantly and ferociously brushed away.
Chance’s usual expression is one that could only be described as Puckish. A dimple creases his left cheek almost perpetually, as though the man finds the universe immensely amusing, and one eyebrow seems always on the verge of rising sardonically. I have seen that brow in just such a position all too frequently, as well. Chance affects no facial hair, and, in my opinion, would look most displeasing beneath a beard or mustache.
No matter what crowd the man may find himself in, Chance Knight will certainly be the center of attention. I have often thought it surprising that he has not chosen a life on the stage, so much does he love the limelight. I have never seen the man at a loss for words, or struggling to find exactly the right sentiment for any situation.
His partner, tall and silent Kye, is nearly his opposite. Where Chance seeks out the spotlight, Kye fades into the background. Kye is a solemn man. He seems to me a bit mistrustful of other people, as though he sees danger in every corner or behind every door. He does not speak much in public, although among friends his soft voice will make itself heard. The man has a certain way with a joke or tale, surprising because one does not expect it from so quiet a fellow.
Well over six feet in height, Kye is slender, though well-muscled. He reminds me somewhat of Mr. Hickok, whom everyone calls “Wild Bill.” Kye is a striking man, though not what everyone might call handsome. His face is dominated by a great axe of a nose, beneath which he affects a thick mustache, of a shade slightly darker than his strawberry-blonde hair. Kye prefers a short haircut, slicked back as is the fashion, but otherwise he seems to care little for the current trends. In fact, I have always had the impression that the man simply pulls open his wardrobe and dons the first garment to come to hand.
Chance is the educated one of the pair, although he once confessed to me that he had left school at an early age and completed his education by reading. The man is easily intelligent enough to perform such a task, and I felt certain that Chance’s knowledge would rival that of any college graduate, especially as I had surreptitiously grilled a few of my male relatives about their college careers and passed along a list of recommended reading to my friend. Kye, although less educated than his partner, is nonetheless more knowledgeable than he allows people to guess. He speaks habitually in an exaggerated drawl, like an ignorant cowboy fresh from a cattle drive. However, having heard the man speak in perfectly proper English in the privacy of my own home, I am forced to decry that as a facade. It strikes me as yet another example of Kye’s droll wit: it amuses him to have people think of him as an uneducated farm boy.
I stared out of the window for as long as might seem socially polite, while pretending to listen to the conversation between my mother and sisters. If I were not in the parlor of my own home, I might beg some excuse and escape. Alas, I was trapped until Mother decided our little “Girls’ Evening” was over. She remained convinced that, living alone as I did, I simply must be starving for company. Thus far, I had successfully restrained myself from informing the dear woman of the true extent of my various friendships. Many were with people she would feel beneath us socially, and even those who might be deemed acceptable enjoyed far more of my company than Mother would approve of. I might be an avowed spinster of thirty (ahem!), but I was hardly about to allow such a minor fact to curtail my social life.
However, the fact was that allowing Mother to remain ignorant of the true state of my affairs left me open to these little meetings. It wasn’t that I despised my six sisters. On the contrary, I felt nothing but affection for them, especially the youngest, Katherine, who seemed likely to follow in my own eccentric footsteps. What I tired of was their incessant chatter of men: the doings of their husbands and fiancés, the men the younger girls hoped to capture, and the general goings-on of every man in town. Just once, I should like to have a civilized conversation with my relatives about something other than the male of the species. My sisters were far from ignorant, as Father insisted that each of us attend Wellesley, yet they acted as if the world of art, music and literature were nonexistent. Our conversations revolved around society life, and any topic I might introduce was swiftly channeled back into the original discussion.
San Francisco had not changed appreciably since the last time I had allowed myself to twitch aside the curtains. The evening sky was still overcast, and a chilly-looking wind still bent the leaves of the trees lining the streets. I nodded a greeting to Mr. Seymour as he passed, walking his ridiculously tiny dog, Skittles. The Armstrong's did the same as they passed in the opposite direction, walking their exceedingly noisy youngster. With a quiet sigh, I turned back to the room, trying to appear as if I had been paying attention to Mother's voice. My sisters never seemed to have the difficulty that I did, listening to the same lectures day in and day out. Now, they nodded practically in unison as Mother finally reached the point of today's discussion, yet another lesson in the art of Man-Catching. To Mother, obtaining a suitable husband was much like a lioness stalking a careless gazelle: one must wait until the prey’s attention was distracted, and then pounce firmly.
I pasted a smile onto my face as Mother glanced my way. I suspected that she still harbored delusions that I might someday meet “the right man” and settle into married life. The fact that I would as soon marry Skittles than any of the "eligible" men in town would have shocked the poor woman into a swoon.
In fact, now that Father had set me up in my own cozy little home, my life was practically perfect. I was able to go nearly anywhere I wished, and could do almost anything I wished, within reason. If I could somehow convince Mother that she did not need to spend every Sunday evening in my parlor, my life would be complete. However, she meant well, so for her sake, I tried to pretend enjoyment of the interminable evening of sewing and gossip. Tonight, as on so many nights, the topic had come around to two of my dearest friends, Mr. Knight and Mr. Devon.
"I simply cannot understand why those young men do not settle down with a nice young lady," Alice said, holding her embroidery up to the gaslight to gauge the stitches. She exchanged one of "those" looks with Mother, and then turned to me with a smile as false as the front of Baker's Mercantile. Alice had married quite young, and was inordinately proud of the doctor she’d managed to snag. She, and the rest of my family, had always found my friendship with the two gentlemen in question puzzling in the extreme.
"Perhaps you should encourage one of them, Emily," she said now. "It may well be that they are shy, and only awaiting a sign from the right woman."
I was fortunate that I had not yet taken a sip of the coffee Barbara had just poured. The idea of Chance Knight possessing a shy bone in his body would have had me spewing the liquid over Mother's skirts. I managed to turn my giggle into a fairly credible cough and traded a knowing look with my maid. Barbara hid a smile behind one hand and turned to offer coffee to my sisters.
"I feel certain," I said, pretending an intense interest in adding just the right amount of cream to my coffee, "that Mr. Knight and Mr. Devon will settle down precisely when it suits them, and not one instant sooner." And were I asked to bet on the date of the aforementioned settling process, I would have placed my money somewhere firmly in the twentieth century, possibly around the time of the gentlemen in question's eightieth birthdays.
My family simply could not grasp the fact that a single woman could enjoy a man’s friendship without dreaming of matrimony. If they knew the true state of my affairs, I had no doubt that Father would order me back home at once, to live in some upstairs bedroom until I grew old and gray, while my sisters swooned in shock. Spinster I may be, but a shrinking virgin I most certainly am not.
The fact is, I have never understood why a woman should allow herself to be forced into what could well turn out to be a loveless marriage before she can discover what pleasure might result between herself and a like-minded male. It is my firm belief that an intelligent woman should satisfy her curiosity on such a front before even considering tying herself to one man for the rest of her life. Certainly, I availed myself of the earliest opportunity to do so, upon reaching my twentieth year without a suitable marriage proposal. Mother and Father practically shoved me at every eligible bachelor in town, and I lost no time taking advantage of their relaxed vigilance. I was fortunate that my two friends had not yet moved to San Francisco, for our friendship would have been spoiled by my parents’ avarice.
If truth must be told, once I made the acquaintance of Messrs. Knight and Devon, I discovered that my earlier experiments on the subject had been poorly conducted. My poor suitors, while I have no doubt of their ardor, fell woefully short in that department when compared to my newest friends. While Mr. Devon may be shy in the social setting, his self-confidence returned once he felt in control of the situation, and self-confidence is always helpful in most areas. Mr. Knight, as I have previously noted, did not appear to lack confidence under any circumstance. Indeed, one may easily imagine the man locked out of his house, dressed only in his Union suit, carrying on a conversation with the milkman with perfect aplomb.
These thoughts, and others of a similar vein, passed through my mind as the voices of my sisters and mother droned on in the background. Life to them was a series of duties to be fulfilled: obedience to one's parents until one could locate a suitable match, then obedience to one's husband, fulfillment of the social duties inherent to one's status, proper upbringing of one's children, and finally, when one was too old to appreciate it, one was allowed to relax and enjoy the few years one had remaining.
I had far better things to do with my time than marriage and children, thank you. Exactly what sorts of things, I had yet to explore, but I was certain they existed. It occurred to me that I had spent the past few years drifting about in a fog of social obligation myself: working with various charities, attending church and various "acceptable" social functions, spending time with my family, and amusing myself in the company of my friends. Had I allowed myself to fall into the same trap that I deplored in my sisters?
My ears pricked up as my sisters returned to one of their favorite topics of discussion: San Francisco's two most eligible bachelors. My two younger siblings still retained hopes of catching the eye of one or another of the gentlemen; either would do, apparently. I did nothing to dissuade them from their pursuit, though I could have told them that a woman who could carry on a witty conversation would attract either gentleman more than one who could produce dainty sewing stitches.
It occurred to me that perhaps my low mood was, in part, due to a longer than usual absence of my two friends from the city. When Chance and Kye were in residence, they hardly left a woman with time to brood. Their latest business trip must either be wildly more successful than expected, or the most horrific failure, for them to be gone for this long.
I was used to their sudden jaunts to Denver or parts further East, of course. Their slightly mysterious "business ventures" often required that they oversee their far-flung empire. I had yet to discover exactly what “business” the gentlemen might be in. This was not for lack of trying; Chance Knight was a master at turning aside a direct question, and prying information from his partner was like speaking to the side of a cliff. I was suddenly struck with a deep sense of frustration, and wished greatly to watch that sardonic eyebrow of Mr. Knight's shoot upward in pretended surprise, or to entice a rare smile onto Mr. Devon's face. Why I should feel so was a mystery, one which I could not help but connect somehow with my longing for my friends, as well as with the vague dissatisfaction I had been feeling these past few weeks.
The appointed hour ending our meeting eventually struck, and I saw my family out. As Barbara bustled about, tidying the room, I tried to amuse myself with the Examiner. Tonight, however, the behavior of my peers, as reported in the social column, seemed petty and mean; the news from abroad merely reminded me that I had been essentially house-bound for some years now.
Dear Barbara knew me well enough to know my usual moods. She quickly ascertained that something was amiss, and handed off the coffee tray to Bessie Ellen before coming to sit on the settee across from me.
"You've been in a mood all evening," she said.
I leaned an elbow on the arm of my chair and stared into the fireplace for a moment to collect my thoughts. “I am not quite certain why. I am not melancholy … or, at least, not entirely. Perhaps you might call it restlessness.”
A knowing smile crossed her lips and she leaned back and crossed her arms. “I was wondering how long it would take you to figure that out.”
I am afraid that I stared at my maid with open mouth, quite forgetting my manners. Barbara continued to smile in that irritating way. "You've been moping about for weeks now, Missy. I could have told you the sort of life your sisters lead wouldn't satisfy you. You're far too intelligent to settle down to a life of sewing and gossip."
"But what else is there to do?"
Barbara patted my hand. In my present ill mood, I found it vaguely patronizing, but tolerated it. Barbara had been with the family as long as I had, having been hired first as my nanny. She had raised each of us, and I suppose that would create in one a sense of motherly concern. Once I moved into my own little house, Barbara decided that a change of careers was called for, and accompanied me as lady's maid.
"We'll think of something," she said now. "I'm sure there are any number of worthy causes needing your attention."
"I am thoroughly tired of worthy causes," I retorted. "I need something to stimulate my mind. I need excitement."
We sat in thoughtful silence for several minutes, listening to the crackle of the fire and the soft ticking of the clock on the mantel. What did I want to do with my life? I could not admit that this existence was all that I could hope for.
"Perhaps you could travel," Barbara suggested. "That should provide enough excitement."
"To what purpose, though? We have seen the grand cities of Europe with Father and Mother."
"You could visit the Egyptian pyramids, then. I have always heard them described as quite exciting."
I pictured the mysterious pyramids. They would, indeed, provide excitement -- yet, afterwards, I would be forced to return home, to this same dissatisfaction I was now experiencing. "I do not think travel will suit my purpose, Barbara. I need something else, though I do not quite see what that may be."
"We will put our heads together and think of something," she repeated.
Nothing further was said on the subject until the next morning, when Barbara brandished the Morning Call as I descended the stairway.
"The classified section," she said, thrusting the paper in my direction. I took it without thinking, not yet having had my morning coffee. Seeing that I was thus handicapped, Barbara allowed me the time I needed to refresh my mind from its usual morning muddle. Once I was more alert, I turned to the newspaper section she had mentioned, but could only stare at it in bemusement.
"You're suggesting that I take a job? Barbara, I hardly need additional income."
She let out a breath in frustration. "I am pointing out that there are careers for women now. It's not the 18th Century any more, you know. You could find some sort of small job that would allow you some excitement and a sense of worth."
A sense of worth. Perhaps she was right, and that was what was missing in my life lately. I found nothing in the newspaper to encourage me, however. I found only six jobs advertising for women, and four of them were for some variety of governess. I had had little patience with my own sisters as children, and could not imagine myself spending hours in the company of any not directly related to me.
Of the remaining jobs offered, two were related to charity work and the remaining was for trained nurses. As I had no medical knowledge, I felt safe in assuming that I would not be qualified for such a position.
"I shall have to send Bessie Ellen out for more newspapers this afternoon," I mused, turning to the social section. Mrs. Pinckney was hosting another of her galas. Her parties were famous for fine food and entertainment, and anyone who aspired to be anyone in the social set vied for an invitation. I felt certain that Kye and Chance would be in attendance, although I was not so sure of my own inclusion, nor was I certain that I wished to join yet another throng of my peers and jostle to be seen.
I tossed the paper aside and rose to complete the morning's chores. As the worthy Mrs. Beeton reminded us, "As with the commander of an army, so it is with the mistress of the house." I had been blessed with a most excellent housekeeper in Mrs. Eldridge, but the prudent lady of the house kept on top of things. We went over the day's menu with Mrs. Rowell, and then consulted the cleaning schedule. Bessie Ellen, in addition to fetching my afternoon newspapers, would be helping Mrs. Eldridge polish silver and clean the china. They would, of course, also keep up with the general housework. A fine home requires constant diligence to stay ahead of the dust and soot of a bustling city.
I reluctantly left the house then, for it was my appointed visiting day. One did not simply stop calling upon one’s acquaintances and relatives, not if one did not wish to be thought of as even more eccentric than a thirty-(ahem) spinster already was. I stopped at several houses and left cards at several more whose mistresses were not at home. Throughout my journey, my mind continued to seethe over my situation, bubbling about much as a stream into which has fallen a large boulder. I knew not what I could do with my life; I only knew that I was growing more miserable with each day that passed.
Thus, it was with a sense of great relief that I came home to find a missive from my dearest friends. Bessie Ellen handed me the creamy envelope with a most un-maid-like giggle, which she quickly hid behind a hand. I ignored this, as Bessie Ellen was not only new to the job, and quite young, but had developed a most understandable infatuation with Mr. Knight. Chance had a regrettable tendency to trigger a giggle in women of a certain age.
I read my letter with pleasure. Chance and Kye had concluded their business in Denver, and were in residence at their Powell Street home for the near future. They begged the privilege of my company for dinner tonight, at Lick House. Dear Chance, the man could not resist an opportunity to make himself known to the masses. If we dined in private, how could the rest of San Francisco society realize that their favorite sons were once more available?
I wasted no time in sending my reply. Of course, Chance and Kye would have already anticipated my acceptance of their invitation, but the formalities must be observed, even among friends. I then allowed Barbara to fuss over my wardrobe as I performed my ablutions. She remained convinced that, left to my own devices, I could no more be trusted to select suitable garb than I could have as a small child. This was a blatant falsehood, however, as this distracted her from becoming overly-solicitous in other areas of my life, I made it a practice to encourage her continued interest in my attire.
Barbara did not entirely support my relationship with the two gentlemen, but at least she did not report my shenanigans to Father or Mother. Dear Barbara was loyal to her no-longer-young charge. And as both of us were older spinsters, she understood many of my needs. Neither of us cared for the idea of marriage, for example, which left her more open to the idea of the occasional paramour. I did not pry into her own private life, and she responded by turning a blind eye to the occasional unchaperoned visitor. And if I wished to spend a few hours in the home of Mssrs. Knight and Devon, Barbara might respond with a gentle scolding on “what the neighbors might say,” but she would make certain that the neighbors learned nothing from my staff.
The woman did spend entirely too much time trying to dress me in what she deemed appropriate, however. I cared not a whit if I appeared in public clothed in the same gown in which I had attended Mrs. Pettigrew’s last tea. However, I did try to give in gracefully often enough to mollify my maid, who tended to sulk if balked too frequently. This evening, Barbara had decided my blue gown should be suitable for an evening on the town. Paired with Grandmother’s pearls and my beaded handbag, I could agree that the outfit was flattering to my figure. I would trust Barbara on whether it was “acceptable.”
Lick House was one of the city’s places to see and be seen: one of our three finest hotels, with an opulent restaurant that would surely rival any in Europe. The walls were paneled in exotic woods and decorated with the sort of fine art one might expect to find in a museum. Fine carpets cushioned one’s steps, and the enormous chandeliers overhead made it possible to read the menu without additional gaslight. The room seated four hundred in elegance, and was nearly almost at capacity. I much preferred a more intimate dinner environment, but it was far too satisfying to be in the company of my friends once again.
Chance and Kye met my carriage at the curb. It seemed to be the latter’s turn to play escort, as he hurried forward to take my hand and help me down. I gave each gentleman a discrete embrace, and a chaste kiss on the cheek, before taking Kye’s arm and entering the hotel.
Were Michelangelo still living, he would have wanted to paint Chance Knight. Chance is a small man, but horrifically handsome. It must be said that the man is well aware of his effect on the opposite sex. He keeps his curly dark hair just long enough to instill a nearly irresistible urge to run one’s fingers through it, although that then means that he must habitually swipe the bangs out of his eyes in order to be able to see. His manner borders on impudent at times, although I have never noticed a recipient of his admiration making any complaints. I have not yet caught the man actually admiring his own reflection, although he is most fastidious about his appearance. The slightest bit of dust or soot that dares to alight upon his person is instantly and ferociously brushed away.
Chance’s usual expression is one that could only be described as Puckish. A dimple creases his left cheek almost perpetually, as though the man finds the universe immensely amusing, and one eyebrow seems always on the verge of rising sardonically. I have seen that brow in just such a position all too frequently, as well. Chance affects no facial hair, and, in my opinion, would look most displeasing beneath a beard or mustache.
No matter what crowd the man may find himself in, Chance Knight will certainly be the center of attention. I have often thought it surprising that he has not chosen a life on the stage, so much does he love the limelight. I have never seen the man at a loss for words, or struggling to find exactly the right sentiment for any situation.
His partner, tall and silent Kye, is nearly his opposite. Where Chance seeks out the spotlight, Kye fades into the background. Kye is a solemn man. He seems to me a bit mistrustful of other people, as though he sees danger in every corner or behind every door. He does not speak much in public, although among friends his soft voice will make itself heard. The man has a certain way with a joke or tale, surprising because one does not expect it from so quiet a fellow.
Well over six feet in height, Kye is slender, though well-muscled. He reminds me somewhat of Mr. Hickok, whom everyone calls “Wild Bill.” Kye is a striking man, though not what everyone might call handsome. His face is dominated by a great axe of a nose, beneath which he affects a thick mustache, of a shade slightly darker than his strawberry-blonde hair. Kye prefers a short haircut, slicked back as is the fashion, but otherwise he seems to care little for the current trends. In fact, I have always had the impression that the man simply pulls open his wardrobe and dons the first garment to come to hand.
Chance is the educated one of the pair, although he once confessed to me that he had left school at an early age and completed his education by reading. The man is easily intelligent enough to perform such a task, and I felt certain that Chance’s knowledge would rival that of any college graduate, especially as I had surreptitiously grilled a few of my male relatives about their college careers and passed along a list of recommended reading to my friend. Kye, although less educated than his partner, is nonetheless more knowledgeable than he allows people to guess. He speaks habitually in an exaggerated drawl, like an ignorant cowboy fresh from a cattle drive. However, having heard the man speak in perfectly proper English in the privacy of my own home, I am forced to decry that as a facade. It strikes me as yet another example of Kye’s droll wit: it amuses him to have people think of him as an uneducated farm boy.