Chapter 1
"WANTED--young women, 18 to 30 years of age, of good moral character, attractive and intelligent, as waitresses in Harvey Eating Houses on the Santa Fe Railroad in the West. Wages $17.50 per month with room and board. Liberal tips customary. Experience not necessary. Write Fred Harvey, Union Depot, Kansas City, Missouri."
Harvey Girls, the waitresses who road the rails west to work in Fred Harvey's restaurants along the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railway line, not only civilized the west, they populated it. From 1883 to the 1950's, over twenty thousand Harvey Girls worked in the lunch counters, restaurants, and dining cars operated exclusively by Fred Harvey, his sons, and grandsons. Screened for grit, poise, and determination, these daughters of immigrants and daughters of industry worked long hours, following to the letter the Harvey Way. In their immaculate black and white uniforms, they manned coffee urns, polished silver, folded napkins, and served gourmet meals from Chicago to San Diego and points south. Characterized by their sense of adventure, eagerness to see the world, and commitment to support their families through hard times, their stories are the stuff from which legends are forged. Into a region that was considered to be "hell on women and horses" the Harvey Girls brought decent food, a friendly smile, and a clean plate to not only the Santa Fe passengers but to the cowboys and railroaders, ranchers, miners, shopkeepers, salesmen, gamblers, preachers, and politicians who populated the west. They changed forever the adage that there were "no ladies west of Dodge City" and became the matriarchs of western America.
La Junta, Colorado, July, 1900
A sliver of crimson broke the eastern horizon, sending parallel beams of light streaking across the prairie as the railroad tracks caught then reflected the thin sunlight until it reached and illuminated two girls playing on the track. No longer cloaked in shadowy pre-dawn, the girls now seemed to glow, their white shifts iridescent, making them look, for all the world, as if they were fairies left over from a midnight ball. In a few minutes, the railroad yard would be swarming with men and boys, getting ready to meet the night train from Topeka, but now the yard and the depot it served were peaceful, resting from the daily hubbub of the great expansion westward.
"Four, five, six..." one girl counted as the other carefully walked, arms outstretched, along the near side of the rail.
The girl on the rail broke into a grin and wobbled slightly with excitement. She stopped for an instant, steadied herself, and resumed walking, fingers splayed, eyes shining, cheeks flushed.
The breeze from the open window woke Elinor. It rustled the curtains of the tiny room, and a wave of cool, dry air swept over her bare skin, tickling her arms and cheeks until it found the nape of her neck. The young woman sighed with pleasure, anticipating another rosy sunrise on the prairie. The days might be scorchers, with little relief apart from a dunking in the river, but the sunrises themselves were worth any number of hot, dusty hours.
Although she and her sister Marianne had arrived but a scant two weeks earlier, Elinor Dashwood already loved La Junta. She loved the enormous sky whose blueness swallowed everything in its vastness. She loved the curve of the Arkansas River as it meandered eastward, irrigating fields of wheat, corn, melon, and alfalfa that emanated from the little town on the Colorado prairie. She loved the blue wall of mountains, a two-day's drive to the west, now that she was out from under its shadow. Elinor could think of neither Glen Corey, nestled in the base of Pikes Peak, nor Little London, as Colorado Springs was arrogantly called by its more high brow residents, without pain. Since Glen Corey could no longer be her home, she was determined to love La Junta and her family be damned.
She rolled over to glance at the clock on the tiny bedside stand before waking Marianne. Her heart stopped when she realized that her sister's narrow dormitory bed was empty, the sheets flung back. Marianne's black button shoes, which should have been peeking out from under her bed, were gone. At that instant, the breeze carried up the distinctive sound of her sister's giggles and Elinor flew to the open window just in time to see Marianne walking the rail, while Gretchen Hansen, her new best friend, the one she had met in Topeka during their month-long training to be Harvey Girls, counted the railroad ties as Marianne walked them.
"Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen! You did it, Marianne. You did it!" Gretchen shrieked, before remembering that she mustn't be heard. The girls laughed and hugged and then looked up at the open window and sheepishly waved at Elinor, now stern-faced with hands placed squarely on her slender hips.
Elinor motioned them to be quiet and then quickly waved them up. The last thing any of them needed was to be fired for breaking house rules. Mrs. Jennings might be their second cousin and a jolly, matchmaking matriarch, but she ran a strict house. According to Eugenie Jennings, God himself took orders from Fred Harvey and she wasn't about to let any of the girls under her wing break a Harvey rule. And one of the hard and fast Harvey rules was that all girls living in the dormitory were to be present and accounted for between ten at night and six in the morning. Except for Saturday night, then curfew was extended until midnight.
Elinor was still at the window when Marianne eased open their door and tiptoed in. Elinor knew that it had taken all of Marianne's and Gretchen's scant supply of self-control to climb the stairs and make their way down the hall without stepping on the squeaky boards Eugenie Jennings purposely never fixed.
"It's just a silly superstition, you know," were Elinor's first words to her sister. She spoke quietly as she continued looking out the window. She wasn't angry, just concerned. She hadn't asked to be put in the position of mothering Marianne, but clearly Marianne still needed mothering, and their own mother was well past doing the job.
"No more so than wishing on a star, like I saw you doing last night," Marianne retorted with a grin as she peeled off her nightdress and tossed it on the bed.
Elinor blushed for she had, in fact, sent up a prayer as she had sat in the rocking chair by the window, rubbing her aching feet and watching Venus, the evening star, low in the sky, suspended above Pikes Peak. In another few months, her view of the mountain at whose base she had been born would be obliterated by the hotel whose skeleton framework still allowed her to see through it. She hoped the hotel, and all the possibilities it brought with it to La Junta, would obliterate the life she had left behind as surely as the view from her window.
Elinor moved away from the window, swallowing a sigh before it had a chance to escape. She slipped her nightgown over her head and hung it on the back of the closet door, put on her dressing gown, and followed her sister down the hall to the washroom where they could hear their fellow waitresses noisily beginning their day.
"Morning, Elinor," came a honey voice behind a washcloth that was scrubbing a broad rosy face complete with snub nose, freckles, and sparkling blue eyes. "Morning, Marianne."
"Morning, Gretchen," Elinor replied evenly.
"Morning, Gretchen ... again," Marianne answered less evenly, at which both Marianne and Gretchen burst into giggles. When the giggles subsided, Gretchen clapped her hands to get the attention of the girls assembled in the washroom and announced that Marianne had that morning walked "sixteen rails before the larks were up."
Amidst the cheering and laughter that followed this announcement, Elinor quietly stepped up to a vacated sink and began to wash her face and arms. When the hubbub subsided, she turned and coolly observed to Gretchen that "it means nothing more than that you and Marianne will wear out your welcome here and be shipped home in disgrace." She knew she sounded like a scold, and she knew that the other girls saw her as the overprotective mother hen she had promised herself she wouldn't become, but Marianne, at least, must realize that she had no home to be shipped off too. If Marianne lost her job, then Elinor would have to leave too, and they had nowhere to go, no money, no family, no friends. La Junta was the end of the line for the Dashwood sisters.
"It means," said Gretchen, unaffected by Elinor's dismissal, "that Marianne's dearest wish will come true, and we all know what ... I mean, who, her dearest wish is."
"I don't claim to hide the fact that we all recognize Mr. Willoughby to be the fairest man in the U.S. of A. He has sense, breeding, taste, and manners. He reads literature and can sing beautifully..."
"And he's rich as Croesus and looks like Adonis," added Clara Hawkins, a little black-haired wiry girl of eighteen from Boston who had finished washing and was now pinning her hair up..
"I love his black velvet smoking jacket," Rosalie O'Neill added, her Irish brogue as thick as the red curls that clustered across her forehead in a stylish "lunatic fringe."
She may not entirely approve of Gretchen Hansen as a suitable friend for Marianne, but at least Gretchen's cheerful presence had kept her sister from moping about, dwelling on the unhappy truth that their half-brother had cheated them out of their home, their inheritance, and their family. John Dashwood was living in elegant Glen Corey with his detestable wife and little sons while Elinor and Marianne were learning what it was like to be servants instead of to be served. She assumed he was ignoring the rosebushes on the newly-laid grave of his father just as he had ignored the last promises he had made to the man regarding his sisters' welfare.
Her morning ablutions over, her face scrubbed and bright, Elinor returned to the tiny room that she shared with Marianne to finish her toilette apart from the throng of other girls. She brushed her hair, coiled it, and pinned it securely. She would do nothing to hazard the standing she had already achieved as neatest, quickest, and most efficient Harvey Girl in La Junta. It was rumored that the Harvey Corporation was opening a dining room in the new hotel that was going up across the street, which meant that Eugenie Jennings would move over there as head waitress, leaving an opening as head waitress at the lunch counter in the depot. Elinor was determined that she would be the first waitress promoted to the head position who hadn't worked at least a year for Mr. Harvey.
Elinor glanced the clock, and hurriedly slipped on a clean pair of drawers and her chemise and then her corset. She pulled the laces snugly in the middle, leaving the top and bottom somewhat loose-she wouldn't be the quickest waitress if she couldn't ever catch her breath. Better to sacrifice the hourglass contour of a Gibson Girl for the steady paycheck of a Harvey Girl. A girl with ambition had enough to contend with without having to deal with men. Having grown up in a land in which men outnumbered women five to one, Elinor was acutely aware of the perils of flaunting one's femininity. Dating amongst Harvey employees was strictly forbidden, and fraternizing with customers was grounds for dismissal. There was a fine line between sweet friendliness and flirtation that some Harvey Girls never could quite find...they were the ones who didn't last long, as Elinor had found out during her and Marianne's first week in La Junta.
Marianne breezed into the room - she had finished dressing in the wash room. Clearly she had gotten Gretchen's help with her corset, as her waist was so tiny that Elinor was sure she must have broken some ribs during the lace up.
"Mrs. Jennings doesn't think too highly of Mr. Willoughby, for all his good looks and fine words," Elinor warned, scanning Marianne's figure disapprovingly.
"It's his good looks and poetry that she despises," Marianne shot back, with a defiant toss of her head. "She's an ignorant woman herself and thinks that anyone who is refined is up to no good. You may be satisfied to toil away here, but I intend to live a life of culture and refinement and talk to those who are cultured and refined, even if it gets me fired. There's more to life than three square meals and a roof over one's head. There's art and music and..."
"And silver-tongued devils-be careful, darling," Elinor said quietly, looking into her sister's bright eyes. "Think before you give your heart away. Let reason be your guide."
"But Ellie, I walked sixteen ties this morning. And you know what they say, 'If you walk sixteen ties without falling off, your dearest wish will come true.'"
"And your dearest wish?"
Marianne smiled mischievously, a dimple denting the creamy corners of her checks, "My dearest wishes comes in on the morning train."
Elinor smiled sadly in return. And just what would he leave on?
Chapter 2
"Big wind blowing in from Albuquerque!"
Word went down the line of Harvey Girls like lightening down a dead tree. Elinor, standing at the end next to Marianne, looked quizzically at Clara Hawkins, the most reliable font of information amongst the crew of waitresses.
Clara had been a Harvey Girl for almost three years and had worked at four different locations. She was working her way towards California, she said.
"That means Mr. Harvey is coming here to do a surprise inspection," Clara whispered to Elinor as soon as Eugenia Jennings had dismissed the girls to their posts. "The girls in Albuquerque have wired ahead to give us fair warning. I've seen him fire a girl on the spot for serving coffee in a cup that had a water spot on it. Better look sharp this morning."
Elinor felt her heart skip a beat. She knew that Marianne's attention to duty was scant at best and with Mr. Willoughby a regular on the Wednesday Lonesome Pine--that is, the 8:10 from Dodge City--there was no telling what she might do right under Fred Harvey's nose. As soon as she could, before Marianne had a chance to pick up her coffee pot and head for the counter to serve their first customers of the day, Elinor put a hand on her arm and told her Clara's warning.
Marianne laughed, "Yes, the Big Cheese himself. Gretchen told me. Don't worry, Elinor, I won't embarrass you."
"It's not that, Marianne, it's..."
But before she could say what was worrying her, Eugenia interrupted with a gentle scolding that girls who chatted during the breakfast rush would never get assigned tables that tipped well.
Elinor's face flushed hotly. Here she was getting them scolded herself. She would just have to trust Marianne to do the right thing.
She needn't have worried.
Fred Harvey did blow into La Junta from Albuquerque, and Marianne just about charmed the socks off the old boy. She was efficient. She was bright. She was crisp and neat and pleasant. She got every customer's drink order right, and flashed her dimples when they teased her to find out how she knew who wanted coffee, tea, iced tea, or milk without even asking. Elinor slyly watched Mr. Harvey watching Marianne executing the Harvey way flawlessly-it was Fred Harvey who had devised the coffee cup signal system in the first place, and it was indicative of the consummate style of his culinary empire. While a waitress was taking a customer's order, she would rearrange his or her coffee cup so that the drink girl could correctly dispense the desired beverage without having to ask the customer herself. A cup right side up in the cup meant coffee, upside down meant hot tea, upside down and tilted against the saucer meant iced tea, and upside down and off the saucer meant milk.
By the time the Lonesome Pine whistled into the station, two hours after the restaurant had opened for the day, Fred Harvey was satisfied that his La Junta operation was in tip top shape and was already boarding the east bound special that would carry him to Florence, Kansas where he would terrorizing the staff at his Clifton Hotel by dinnertime.
John Willoughby was not on the Lonesome Pine, however. Marianne watched each passenger disembark, and her eager face grew grave as he failed to appear.
Eugenie, in her big, bosomy, hearty way wasn't particularly helpful.
"Young men," she informed Marianne after the girls of the morning shift had finished setting tables for the lunch rush and were polishing the silver, "are like a morning star-they appear, and then they're gone. They look fine, they talk fine, they shine so bright, but you turn around and they're gone." She dismissed the fickleness of youth with a doleful shake of her head and comfortably settled herself into her favorite conversation, that of promoting suitable matches for the young women in her charge. And with Marianne and Elinor Dashwood being her cousin Ella's daughters, they were not only in her charge but kin as well. She had already given the Dashwood sisters' matrimonial prospects great consideration.
"Best to go with the Colonel, Marianne," she continued in that familiar tone that tended to set Marianne's teeth on edge. "He's got a fine house in Denver. On Millionaire's Row. He's a real swell. Some say he'll be governor in another year or two. And you'll do us all proud, playing hostess to the great and grand. You've the figure and the color to go far, my dear. Harvey Girls make the best wives, all up and coming gents know that. And the president himself is a sports man. I've heard that there's none he likes so well to show him the game of Colorado than Colonel Brandon himself. Why just last month Brandon lead a hunting party that took Mr. Roosevelt up the Colorado where he shot a bear in his pajamas..."
She paused, waiting for one of the newer girls, one who had not yet been subjected to Eugenie's favorite joke, to respond appropriately.
Gretchen rolled her eyes at Marianne who steadfastly refused to give Eugenie any encouragement whatsoever. Elinor, who was now polishing the coffee urns as if her life depended on it, suppressed a smile.
Undaunted that no one took the bait, Eugenie roared, "How the bear got in his pajamas, he never knew!" and then laughed until she had to wipe the tears from her eyes.
"Anyway, my dear," she said, resuming a practical air while picking up a piece of the silver that Marianne had polished, peering at it closely to see her reflection in it, and then setting it back in the pile to be done over, "Colonel Brandon has taken a fancy to you, and it's as plain as the nose on my face that he needs a well-turned out wife. You set your cap on him, and you'll be wed by Christmas next. You mark my words. Though," she added, "you're not to even think of getting married a minute before your year is up or I'll come after you like a hawk after a rabbit."
Marianne gave her second cousin a thin smile and said, "Eugenie, young men are not, by nature, inconstant and rich men are not, by nature, interesting." She paused for affect, and then said airily, "I'm never going to marry anyway. I intend to have a career on the stage."
Elinor looked up in alarm. She hadn't heard Marianne utter this worn refrain since they had left Colorado Springs in May. Fanny Dashwood, wife of their half-brother John, had been particularly cruel when she learned of Marianne's hopes and dreams, and had scornfully told her that if she looked sharp and worked hard she might find a farmer who would have her...before her looks faded. Since that horrible day when the sisters learned they were to leave Glen Corey forever, during the party that Fanny and John had thrown just a scant month after their father's burial, just after Marianne had sung "Vedrai, carino" from Don Giovanni for John and Fanny's guests and Fanny had coldly informed Marianne that they had dismissed her music teacher that morning and that she would teaching instead of learning from now on, and that several of the ladies in the audience were interested in employing her as a governess for their children. "I would rather sling hash in a two-bit cow town," was Marianne's hot retort. "As you wish," was Fanny's cold reply.
Never once, not while Elinor was filling out the application forms that Eugenie had sent to their mother, nor during the interview with the Harvey people in Denver, nor during their month-long indoctrination into the world of waitressing in Topeka, nor anytime since they had started in La Junta, had Marianne mentioned her ambitions. Elinor was afraid that it had died with the hopes that they might remain in their father's home and share it with their brother and his young family. Now she wasn't sure that it was quite safe for Marianne to be dreaming again. If her interest in John Willoughby, the dashing young man who passed through La Junta three or four times a week, wasn't matrimonial, how was he tied in with her dearest wishes? What had he told her when he had waltzed with her at the Saturday night dance that had gotten her so worked up that she would rise early to walk the rail? Who was he anyway? What kind of business would cause a man to travel as much as he did?
Amid the chorus of derisive laughter that greeted Marianne's pronouncement that she wasn't the marrying type - anyone, man or woman, or laid eyes on her knew that she was born to be married - Eugenie announced that it was time to put away the silver and change their aprons before the lunch crowds start to arrive.
Chapter 3
During the following week, Elinor made it her business to find out everything she could about John Willoughby. She did it quietly, listening carefully, asking casual questions of the busboys and kitchen staff, as well as the conductors and the engineers, most of whom were single and most of whom ate all their meals at the Harvey House. She was well-liked-her trim figure, calm grey eyes, and clear, rosy complexion would have been appreciated anywhere, but out on the hot, dusty Colorado prairie, Elinor Dashwood's simple, direct, polite demeanor made her as appealing as a long cool glass of water. And the men of La Junta, those who worked the land and those who worked the railroad and those just passing through were happy to take a break from their labor to talk with the pretty young woman who seemed so interested in all they said.
From Horace Hampton, a dapper conductor with a huge mustache and a big toothy smile, Elinor learned that John Willoughby lived in San Francisco, but traveled a good deal on business. Horace said that Willoughby had told him that he was looking into buying a private car, but so far he hadn't bought one ... so far as Horace knew.
Willy Dooley, a seed salesman from Minnesota, told Elinor that Willoughby was nephew and sole heir of the great opera singer Marguerite Allen, who now lived in glorious, reclusive retirement on Knob Hill surrounding by mountains of jewels and a sea of cats. Willy told Elinor her that when he was a boy, his parents had taken him to see Marguerite Allen when she played St. Paul and that she had the voice of an angel and the reputation of the devil himself. Willy then asked Elinor if she would share an ice cream soda with him at Miller's Drugstore. Elinor had to decline due to a commitment she had made to Eugenie Jennings just that morning.
Carl Inman, a crusty old brakeman who was missing three fingers, declared that Willoughby was a land speculator. "That fella," Carl had said, squinting his eyes and tightening his mouth as he paused from his ham and eggs to talk to Elinor, "he works hand in glove with the railroad barons, buying up gov'ment land along the railroad lines, and then selling it to the little guy who breaks his back and breaks his heart trying to get water from a stone just so's he can farm alongside the railroad. Them fellas put up these posters all over Europe and in the big cities back East. 'Rain follows the railroad' they say. And the poor schmucks believe 'em. They come here thinking they're going to live the good life just like in those posters, but if you ain't got water rights, your land ain't worth nuthin', zilch. It takes hundreds and hundreds of acres just to keep a few scrawny head of cattle alive out here." Carl shook his head and attacked his ham once more, "I'm not saying this here Willoughby's crooked, but he sure as shootin' ain't straight neither."
Elinor also learned that Willoughby was a speculator of another sort. He was a star maker of the first order. Trading on the name of his famous aunt, he had launched the San Francisco Revue in 1898, and just a scant two years later, it was the pinnacle of culture west of the Alleghenies, and rivaling New York itself when it came to "no holds barred" entertainment." Some called the Revue burlesque, and some said that it wasn't fit for decent company. Preachers in San Francisco pulpits condemned the Revue and admonished their flocks to steer clear of the evils that the Revue presented, but the people themselves, from the shopkeepers to the shipping magnates, flocked to the San Francisco Revue nightly, and the girls who starred in the Revue could write their own ticket.
"No wonder Marianne is fit to be tied over John Willoughby," Elinor thought after hearing this last bit of information from Clara Hawkins while they were knitting together one Saturday evening in the dormitory parlor. All the other Harvey Girls, those not on shift anyway, were upstairs getting ready for the Saturday night dance at the Grange. Two Saturdays a month, the Ladies Auxiliary Club of La Junta hosted a dance. Tickets were ten cents apiece, and the railroaders, farmers, ranchers, and shopkeepers welcomed the opportunity to try out the new dance steps with a pretty Harvey Girl. Romances were born under the stars on the steps of the Grange, where dancers gathered, full of lemonade and sugar cookies, intoxicated with the lilting music of the waltzes and the excitement of the polkas, ready to share their dreams and hearts and youth with each other. But Elinor wasn't interested in the Saturday night dances. She'd left her heart in Colorado Springs, at Glen Corey, in the tenuous care of Fanny Dashwood's older brother Edward, a shy, wryly humorous man who was as unlike his sister as two people could ever be.
Before a tear could steal down her cheek, a booming voice broke her reverie.
"Girls? Girls? Time's a wasting. Beaus are waiting."
Elinor could hear Eugenie coming downstairs. From the rocking chair opposite the parlor door, she could see the ample lady sailing down the narrow steps at a dangerous rate. Her broad form filled the space from railing to wall, with little room left for the enormous puffs on her sleeves. She was dressed in a ridiculously girlish dress of peach organdy, and the Belgian lace that circled her neck and sleeves made her seem more like a birthday cake than the matron that she was. She was ready to escort the bevy of Harvey Girls in her charge to the dance, and her thunderous voice was like a call to arms.
Eugenie spied Elinor and Clara, calmly knitting in the parlor and rolled her eyes, threw up her hands in exasperation, marched into the room, and launched a campaign of withering scorn.
"You're not about to sit here," Eugenie cried, addressing Elinor, "in the fading light, ruining your beautiful eyes, knitting lace..." she spat out the word 'lace' as if it were something vile that should be buried, "while every eligible bachelor within a hundred miles is lining up at the hall down yonder eager to court a pretty little wife just like you?"
"I went to the dance last Saturday," Elinor replied, smiling gently up at the gigantic peach puff that was bobbing before her, "and apart from very sore feet during Sunday's breakfast rush, I didn't find it a particularly memorable experience. I'd much rather have a quiet chat with Clara and finish this present for my mother than be pushed to and fro by crowds of people."
"Yes, yes, that's all very well, and the lace is very pretty," Eugenie said, fingering the length that Elinor had already worked, "but men, my dear, men won't know to come and call on you and see your exquisite handiwork if you don't light the way for them. They're little more than beasts, you know. It is your job to show them how pleasant the finer things in life can be."
"It's her job," Clara spoke up pertly from the other side of the room, "to do as she pleases with her free time. Women in Colorado can vote, they can own property, and they can decide for themselves if they want to dance with the big ole country oafs that you're always throwing at us."
"Big ole country oafs?" Eugenie repeated scornfully. "I'll have you know, little Miss Suffragette, that the Ladies Auxiliary prides itself on the fine young men that frequent its dances. Why even Colonel Brandon will be there tonight, and he usually only comes to town for the Fireman's Ball. But he came in on the four-thirty from Denver. Came to La Junta on a Saturday, no less. I saw him myself, those long legs, that black hat of his. I know he came expressly to see Marianne. To dance with her. Oh, he's smitten, I tell you what. Jack Middleton as good as told me so himself."
Jack Middleton was stationmaster of the La Junta Depot, and Eugenie's 'particular' friend, as she liked to put it. Neither Jack nor Eugenie were the marrying kind-"one husband is enough to make you a missus for life," Elinor had heard Eugenie declare more than once-but they liked each other's company, and, Elinor suspected, they shared each other's bed from time to time.
Clara, her black curls bobbing incongruously beside her sharp nose and steely eyes, gave Eugenie a self-satisfied smirk, "Well, Eugenie, you can scheme all you like. But Marianne Dashwood will no more dance with Colonel Brandon tonight than she will fly. Gretchen told me that she saw John Willoughby checking into the hotel this afternoon. He must have slipped by you, I guess," she added smugly.
Elinor was on her feet in a flash. "You mean to say that John Willoughby will be at the dance tonight?" she cried, angry that Clara had withheld this vital piece of news from her, since they had just been discussing the very man.
Clara nodded. Then she wrapped up her knitting. "I expect you'll want to go to the dance after all," she said calmly, rising to her feet. "I'll go with you. Let's go get dressed."
Chapter 4
Colonel Josiah Brandon, late of West Point where he had served on the faculty of the engineering department for the past thirteen years, watched Marianne Dashwood enter the clapboard hall as if she were carried on the wings of angels. He had been quietly on the lookout for her while making small talk with the matrons of the town and their men, but when she entered the room and looked about, her fresh young face flushed with the glow of health and the delight of a robust intellect, he stopped talking mid-sentence and gazed at her without reserve, his heart beating with a passion he thought had died long ago. Josiah's admiration for the girl was as plain on his face as the military insignia was on his uniform. Though she was loveliness itself, there was a depth to her that belied her looks, he believed. Her manner, so disarming in its honesty and innocence, did more to set off her figure and complexion in his eyes than the roses she wore at her waist and the pearls that circled her throat.
She was on Elinor's arm, and the glow that Josiah admired was due in part to the fact that her older sister had cast aside her tiresome knitting needles and had accompanied her and the other Harvey Girls to the Saturday night dance after all. Truth to tell, Marianne had been worried about Elinor since their arrival in La Junta. Elinor's more serious nature had deepened at an alarming rate since their father had died and their mother went to live with relatives in Denver. She always seemed to be worrying about making a good impression and saving every dime. Being waitresses in a Harvey House put them about as far from the brink of starvation as a girl could reasonably get, as Marianne had told Elinor on more than one occasion. And, they had maids to clean their rooms, more pocket money than their parents had ever provided them when they were the belles of Little London, and talent enough to put the world at their feet, should they desire to exercise it.
Not quite realizing that his legs were carrying him toward the Dashwood sisters, Josiah found himself before them, gallantly bowing first to Elinor and then turning to Marianne, half expecting her to ignore him, he bowed. He felt her fingers within his own, strong and capable, warm and soft. Her touch was electric. He felt her soul in the palm of his hand. He looked up, and she smiled.
"Your mother," he said, steadying his voice so that Marianne wouldn't detect the emotion that surged within him, "sends her greetings, a host of packages and parcels which I shall have the bellman deliver to your dormitory, and...her love." Despite his best efforts, however, his voice warbled slightly on the last word.
"Thank you," Elinor replied quickly, eliminating the possibility of an awkward silence. Josiah looked at her and read a sympathetic understanding in her eyes. Elinor knew his heart plainly, even if her sister was blind to it.
"My pleasure," he replied evenly.
"Yes, we do thank you," Marianne effused, recollecting herself and her manners when she felt her sister's elbow in her side. "Not just for bringing Mama's packages, but for being such a good friend to her. She is not so blessed with friends now as when Papa was alive, and I know her present situation is so different from what she is used to. If only we could all be together again..." she stopped short and choked back a sigh. Elinor had asked her not to lament the break up of their family, and though she was careless of Elinor's admonitions as a rule, she respected this one. As Elinor said, their mother must conserve what little money she had left to her to secure an education and home for Margaret, their youngest sister, who was not yet eleven. Pining for the past wouldn't alleviate the present. The older girls must earn their own living. Elinor had been adamant on that point.
"Thank you for being a friend to our mother," Marianne concluded, her voice thick with emotion.
Josiah groaned inwardly-she thinks it's her mother I'm interested in, not herself. But he mustered a thin smile and offered an arm to escort the ladies to the refreshment table.
Marianne did not accept his offer. Gretchen had caught her eye and was waving to her, and without a glance or parting word, Marianne was gone from the Colonel's side, leaving Elinor to apologize with her eyes for what her tongue would not permit.
"My sister's manners grow wilder by the day, Colonel Brandon," Elinor said at last, after Josiah had obtained a glass of lemonade for her and stood awkwardly by her side, both of them not wishing to be at the ball other than to be with Marianne, and Marianne not cognizant of the pain she was inflicting on the two who loved her most in all the world. "She gives herself over to impulse," Elinor complained, "she must learn the ways of the world..."
"Don't wish such a thing upon your sister," Josiah said quickly and with feeling. "Her joy, her innocence, her rapture in all she sees and experiences-that is what makes the world glow around her. I knew a girl once, so much like Marianne, in looks and manner, and she learned the ways of the world all too soon, was cruelly taught them. Don't wish such a thing upon your sister, Miss Dashwood," he said bitterly. "Let her dance while she is young."
Elinor looked at him curiously. Such a combination of bitterness and compassion seemed odd in a military man. She had been used to viewing soldiers as hardened cases-those who had visited her father's house had certainly not been men of feeling as this man clearly was. She wondered what had made him so. He was tall with the ramrod posture of an officer. A large drooping mustache and heavy sideburns filled out what Elinor knew must be a lean, angular jaw. He was known to be an accomplished horseman, a crack shot, a skillful swordsman, and a wrestler. Though she guessed him to be in his mid-thirties, his hair was still thick and blond and straight, setting off the sun-burned skin and blue eyes that burned with an icy fire beneath a heavy brow. He smelled of whiskey and cigars, leather and newsprint. He sang Irish ballads and read Cicero and visited Paris in the Spring. He was from the East, an old family, Beacon Hill, her mother said. But that might have been merely wishful thinking.
Mrs. Catherine Dashwood had liked Josiah Brandon from the moment she met him, at the home of her cousins in Denver. And since he traveled throughout the West on business, she had used him to send care packages to her daughters while they were in Topeka and now that they were settled in La Junta. And a friendship had formed among them that some parties wished might blossom into something deeper.
There are a few defining moments in one's life-moments marked by events or words that shape the future-and fewer still that are observed and acknowledged as such when they occur.
Josiah had just such a moment when he beheld Marianne, later that same evening, in the company of John Willoughby, who arrived late to the party. He saw them spy each other across the room, and he saw the delight plainly showing on their faces as they fought the throng to meet up finally in the center of the hall, waltzing couples whirling by them as they stood, not embracing, except with their eyes, palm to palm, engaged in animated conversation. Josiah could not, of course, hear the words they exchanged, nor did he want to. It was enough to watch their faces to know that he had been defeated before he had begun the campaign. Young will cleave unto young, he thought to himself, I've had my time, and my time and her time cannot be one.
Elinor did not witness this latest pain that Josiah suffered. For when John Willoughby entered the room, pulling Marianne into his orbit, Elinor saw that with him came Edward Ferrars, brother of her brother's wife. She was shocked in see him in La Junta-her heart whispered that perhaps he had come to see her, but her mind wouldn't let that possibility exist. But he was family, and striving to still her rapid pulse, she made her way toward him, to greet him and hear from him what brought him to the desolate little town on the prairie where she was trying to forget all that he might have meant to her.
Chapter 5, Pt. 1
Marianne's joy knew no bounds. Though she was adamant in declaring to her sister and friends that her interest in John Willoughby derived solely from his admiration of her artistry as a singer and his ability to launch her career on the stage, she had to admit, when pressed, that she found his manners pleasing and the rest of him more so.
John was a tall, solidly built man, in his mid-twenties, with curling black hair and laughing dark eyes. His moustache was close-clipped, and his jaw smooth shaven. Marianne admired the elegance that belied the strength that rippled beneath his immaculately tailored coat-he was a robust connoisseur, a man of world whose heart still clearly bent to the whim of a muse. He wore snowy white shirts whose ruffles were crisp, even at the end of a day on the train or a night in society. His fingers were long, like that of an artist or pianist. Marianne longed to be the canvas on which John painted, she longed to be the marble beneath his chisel and hammer. She knew that his taste and knowledge of the world, when applied to her raw talent, would yield the most pure, the most simply beautiful form of artistic expression. And there was nothing she would not do, she decided, to fulfill her destiny and express her love of the world through her voice.
And all that was now within the scope of possibility. John Willoughby was like an angel, ready to hand her the means of making her dream a reality. In the middle of the dance floor, they stood, palm to palm, her face radiant with joy. His face radiant also, reflecting her joy.
"I will be there, Mr. Willoughby," Marianne promised eagerly. "I most certainly will not fail to make it to the audition. Thank you, a thousand times thank you, for speaking of me to Mr. Carroway. He will not be disappointed, I promise you. But you must recommend an audition piece for me-I will practice diligently, but you know what he likes, and I promise to be guided by you."
John threw back his head and laughed, then he caught Marianne's rosy face in his hands and held it tenderly, lost to the sounds of the dance that whirled around him. This girl was so different from the others, he thought, surprised at himself for noticing. He was well used to female beauty, inured to it even. And while he appreciated a pretty face and a pleasing figure, a charming countenance and a slender ankle, he had long prided himself on not losing his head where women were concerned. Life with his Aunt Marguerite had certainly thrown him early into the way of many women, and though most had tried to ensnare him for pleasure or profit, he had enjoyed their attentions and company while eluding the iron shackles of matrimony as well as love.
John looked into Marianne's eyes and realized that this girl would either rise to glory or burn up in defeat-she was not the usual sort who approached him, the kind who, from lack of talent and an abundance of ambition, would toil her youth away as a chorus girl and then retire to a life as a fancy dancer in one of Wilton Carroway's 'Gentlemen's Clubs.'
John swallowed. His throat felt dry, his neck sweaty. He admitted to himself that he actually cared what happened to Marianne. He remembered her voice as it was when he first heard her at a party in Colorado Springs, when her father was still alive. He was struck then by the odd mixture of maturity and innocence which marked her countenance. He watched the audience as much as he watched her that evening. He saw the men, leaning toward her, pulled by desire, mesmerized by her body, which swayed unconsciously to the rhythm in the music. He knew that when Marianne closed her eyes with pleasure as the song swelled within her, every man in the audience would have eagerly left his wife to have a moment alone with Marianne.
That evening, he knew that she had 'it'-- that indefinable quality that made a singer a siren. He knew her voice, raw as it was, could be trained. Her beauty was unquestionable. Her family formidable. But that had changed with the death of her father. He had been more than a little surprised to see her in La Junta just ten days ago, a mere waitress at a lunch counter. A few discreet inquiries gave him all he needed to know of her present situation. He claimed an acquaintance, and she, with wit and vivacity, claimed an audition. He told her that he would speak to his partner on her behalf and see what he could arrange. She was delighted with the arrangement-she didn't seem to think that getting to Dodge City to audition for Wilton Calloway would be a problem at all. She wanted his advice on how best to impress Mr. Calloway. John didn't have the heart to tell her that the song she selected was immaterial.
John glanced towards Elinor Dashwood, who was no longer watching them but was now engrossed in conversation with a young man John had never seen before. If John had read Elinor right with regards to her sister, Marianne would find it no small feat to be at the audition in Dodge City next Tuesday. Maybe that would be for the best after all, John thought. But no, he shook his head indulgently and smiled into her eyes. This rapt creature would never be content for a life on the farm, or as wife and mother even. She would make her way to the stage, and better that he should guide her than let her find her own way.
"Dance with me?" John asked, bowing to Marianne with a flourish that made her laugh and blush.
"With pleasure," the lady answered, giving herself over to enjoying the company of someone so completely fitting her idea of what a young man ought to be, if he possibly could. "But," she said, slipping her hand on his shoulder and he slid his around her waist and they began to waltz, "you must tell me how you come to know our dear friend, Edward Ferrars. I saw him with you when you came in, and now he's talking with Elinor, and, drat the girl, but it's clear that she's making him most uncomfortable."
Chapter 5, Part 2
"I beg your pardon, Miss Marianne," John said, "but I don't know the man with whom your sister is speaking. Ferrars, you say his name is?""
"Edward Ferrars--but you arrived together," Marianne insisted.
"Coincidence. He is your friend?" John asked, surprised to feel a pang of jealousy along with a twinge of concern that Marianne might not be entirely friendless since the death of her father.
"Brother-in-law. Brother to my brother's wife, that is. And yes, he is our friend. Unlike his sister..." Marianne stopped herself, and flushed hotly. Her mother and Elinor had implored her to hold her tongue with regards to Fanny Dashwood. They may have lost their home and fortune and place in society, but they would not lose face unless they stooped to Fanny's level and gossiped about her.
Marianne gritted her teeth and tossed her head, setting her curls dancing, and smiled at John. "Edward is our friend, and we, I hope, are his," she said with a queenly air. She went on confidentially--"although we didn't expect him to see him here before the end of summer. Fanny said that he was to be in New York all summer."
Marianne and John were now at the far end of the room and Marianne, forgetting her own ambitions and the role John was to play in helping her achieve them, craned her neck to watch her sister and friend still deep in conversation.
"I wonder what brought him here," she fretted, "and, oh, I do wish that Elinor would smile at him just a little. We're at a dance and she's acting as if we were at a wake. And now there's Colonel Brandon joining them and ruining their tête-à-tête. Do you know the Colonel, Mr. Willoughby?" Marianne asked brightly, though still preoccupied with the progress Edward was making in breaking through Elinor's reserve.
"Only by reputation." Then he added quietly, "I have heard that he admires you greatly."
Marianne laughed and blushed slightly. "That's just Eugenie Jennings rattling on. She's married me off at least ten times ... in her mind. Why, the Colonel is old enough to be my father, at least. No, he's courting my mother, or he will once she's no longer wearing weeds. There the waltz has ended. Thank you, Mr. Willoughby." She curtsied sweetly, then cast a look in her sister's direction again and said, "I must see to Elinor and Edward, come with me and meet Edward." She took John's hand and threaded her way through the crowd. He let her steer him, cognizant of the novelty of the situation and amused by her impulsive good humor.
Josiah Brandon felt his heart give way when he saw that Marianne had not parted from her partner at the end of the dance but seemed determined to keep him at her side all the evening and was now bringing him to them. He had thought that perhaps he might have persuaded Elinor and Marianne to join him and their newly arrived friend Edward for a late supper at the hotel, but that was out of the question if John Willoughby was in tow. And then Marianne was before him, rosy as ever, smilingly introducing her friend John Willoughby of San Francisco first to Edward Ferrars of New York City and then to him.
"Now, Edward," Marianne said, once the introductions were made, "however did you escape Gotham? Elinor and I were given to understand that you would be held captive by the fiends of industry until at least September. But here you are, come to see us before midsummer."
Edward Ferrars smiled at Marianne's fanciful description of his life. He was, as he liked to describe himself, the most average of men. Of average height and medium build, without striking looks or charming manners. His eyes were neither penetrating nor soulful, his hands were nothing out of the ordinary. His face was clean-shaven, his collars were starched, he set his watch by the railroad, and he ate at his club every night that his mother didn't require his presence at her table.
"Business takes me to Los Angeles, Marianne," Edward said.
"But you hate business," Marianne protested.
"What I hate is immaterial," he said frankly. "I know my duty, and my duty lies in Los Angeles this week." He glanced awkwardly at Josiah and John, embarrassed to be mother-henned by Marianne. "But don't worry about me, Marianne," he said with more composure than he felt, "your sister has promised to take me fishing along the Arkansas River tomorrow morning. She says, the ... the mornings are quite lovely here."
"That's right," Elinor said with a quiet smile. And then to Marianne's delight, Elinor tucked her hand into the crock of Edward's arm and patted it fondly. "We'll have a string of Rainbows before the noon train pulls out," she went on, "I'll asked Eugenie to put them in the freezer, and the next time Edward passes through La Junta, Marianne, we'll serve him trout that he caught himself."
"What business are you in, sir?" Josiah asked Edward cordially. He wasn't exactly snubbing John, and he was eager to get to know this friend of the family he wished to befriend, and possibly join.
"Coal."
Edward said the word with neither boast nor apology, yet he fell the full indictment of it as both Josiah and John seemed unable or unwilling to respond. It had been but a few months since the tragedy in Scofield, Utah, where an explosion in a mine had killed hundreds of men, wiping out all the male members of many families, and bringing into sharp relief the plight of the miners who were driven to wildcat strikes because the owners of mines were blind, deaf, and dumb to their misery.
Chapter 6
Elinor rose early the morning after the ball. She noted with relief that Marianne was sleeping soundly in the bed next to hers. She strained her eyes in the dim morning light to confirm that no telltale drops of dew or fresh mud were on Marianne's boots. Marianne had not been out on the tracks that morning at least. Too tired from breaking poor Colonel Brandon's heart while dancing in Mr. Willoughby's arms, Elinor thought with rueful pride in her sister's charms.
She slipped out of dormitory room and down to the wash room. Such a difference a half an hour can make. Yesterday the room had been crowded with girls getting ready for the breakfast shift-now, at 5:30 am, all was quiet. Usually Elinor would have been hoarding sleep like her fellow Harvey Girls, for the work was hard, and it wasn't often that Eugenie Jennings didn't schedule her for a breakfast shift. After all, Elinor was family and the best tips could be made from the workmen who were happy to see a fresh, pleasant smile along with their flapjacks and coffee. This morning, however, Elinor was willing to let the others have the prize customers-she was going fishing with Edward Ferrars.
Elinor eased the steamer trunk from under her bed and unlocked it, careful not to wake the sleeping girls around her. She burrowed down in the trunk, stacking her books and drawing tablets neatly on her bed, followed by the box of precious pastels her father had given her just the Christmas before last. She had brought them with her to La Junta, hoping that her grief over his death would ease enough for her to resume the landscapes that had given them both so much pleasure. At the bottom of the trunk below her knitting books and stationary, she found what she was seeking. Her father's tackle box and creel. Her mother had thought her foolish to use up valuable trunk space for such bulky items, but Marianne had understood. Fishing with their father on Sunday mornings had been sacred to Elinor and Marianne. Their mother had frowned when they would miss church and arrive home for dinner at elegant Glen Corey sunburnt and scratched from the brambles that lined the river that tumbled out of the mountains and into the lake that fronted the mansion. It was the only time when Marianne saw her sister with a hair out of place or her dress other than prim and perfect, and she loved her the more for it.
Elinor put her belongings back in the trunk, eased it under the bed, and was just pinning her straw hat firmly on her head, when Marianne rolled over, opened her eyes, and smiled up at her sister.
"Give Edward my love-and let him catch some of the fish," Marianne whispered with a teasing smile.
"Be good," Elinor replied, touching her fingers to her lips and then pressing them on her sister's forehead.
Edward was waiting for Elinor on the front steps of the boarding house. Decked out in straw hat as well, he looked more like a farmer than a businessman, and Elinor smiled broadly as he took her hand in his and greeted her with a kiss on the cheek that made her face flush rosily. It promised to be a fine day, indeed!
Dan O'Neill, manager at the hotel, had arranged for a thermos of coffee and a basket of cinnamon rolls from the Harvey House when he discovered that Edward Ferrars, the hotel's favorite customer, was taking Miss Elinor Dashwood, the town's favorite Harvey Girl, fishing on the Arkansas River that morning. Dan would have loved to take Miss Dashwood fishing himself but he figured his wife wouldn't have liked that, so he was content to outfit her with provisions by proxy.
"Did you sleep well, Edward?" Elinor asked, as they headed down the boardwalk toward the edge of town. "I know the hotel isn't much, but six months from now our new Harvey Hotel will be up and then you'll be as comfortable as if you were in New York."
"Sleeping on a bench in the depot I'm more comfortable than anywhere in New York, particularly in my mother's house," he answered dryly. Then he smiled. "The hotel is fine, though a screen on the window wouldn't go amiss," he added. While I like hearing the mail train come through, I think I know what the fish'll be biting this morning, as I became intimately acquainted with every insect in the state last night."
"Oh, Edward, really. You should tell Mr. O'Neill. You really should. He would be mortified to learn that you had been put in a less than desirable room. But just you wait," she went on gaily, "six months from now, La Junta will be on the map as the best stop between St. Louis and the coast."
"It already is," Edward said gallantly, to which Elinor smiled happily and tucked her hand ever more firmly under his arm.
They caught three fish each that were keepers-threw back the babies-"nothing under 12 inches will do for Mr. Harvey," Elinor informed Edward, "and while I will keep these frozen for your return trip and not let Cookie serve them to anyone else, we musn't compromise the standards set by the man himself."
The morning had been perfect-Colorado blue sky, fringed with high, light clouds, lazy hawks, and cool, rippling waters. Her father's tackle box and creel, once more in use. Edward's straight sandy hair falling across his forehead as he tied a fly on his line-how she longed to smooth that hair back into place. The shiny iridescence of a rainbow trout. His strong tanned hand taking hers as they jumped from rock to rock-she almost lost her balance, he steadied her. Would that he would always be there to steady her. Sticky sweet cinnamon rolls. Coffee, rich and dark and strong. Sunlight. Shadows. A train whistle long and loud. Cottonwood leaves rustling in the soft breeze.
"How long are you in Los Angeles?" Elinor asked, as they walked back to town.
"A few weeks. I need to do some legal work for my mother. Water rights this time."
Elinor didn't press for details. The late Andrew Ferrars was known for his ruthlessness, and though his widow was now head of the company, its reputation hadn't changed. It was enough for her to know that Edward wasn't comfortable in the family business. That much he had told her in confidence when they had become friends in Colorado Springs, before her brother had sent her and Marianne packing.
"And then?"
"I plan to head up the coast to San Francisco. My old headmaster moved west last year with his family and I want to pay him a visit." Edward paused, cleared his throat, took Elinor's hand, and said in a low, earnest voice, "I've been thinking about the seminary. I'm not cut out to be a businessman-I know it, and Mother knows it. Robert does much better at that sort of thing. I hate being the hatchet man. I really do. I'm ready to walk away from everything just to find a quiet life. Do you understand?"
He said the last so fervently that Elinor felt his whole soul must depend on her understanding. And she did. She agreed with him. Seminary school and a theological career and a quiet life that didn't involve exploiting coal miners or migrant farmers was exactly right for Edward Ferrars. And he was exactly right for her.
"So after I do the legal work for mother, I will go to visit Dr. Steele and discuss my plans and hopes with him. He always gave me excellent advice, treated me like a son, made me feel as if I was part of his family. Sometimes I wanted to be part of his family and not of my own...but, there, dear Elinor, I don't want you to think meanly of me. I love my family, but we don't always see eye to eye. You understand, don't you?"
Elinor understood as vigorously as Edward could want her to. She dared not get ahead of herself, but in an instant she saw how their life could be-by Edward's side, providing a home for Marianne while she pursued her dreams, walks along tree-lined avenues in the moonlight, children.
Edward's hand tightened on her own, bringing her back, and she realized that he was talking again-"I need to talk to you about something...very important. I need to tell you...you must know how things are before I leave. Elinor, are you working this evening? Can you dine with me?"
Her heart soared-"I'm scheduled to work the dinner shift, but Marianne will work for me. She would love to work for me so that I could dine with you..." Her words came thick and fast. Edward was going to ask her to marry him that very evening. She would never be head waitress in a Harvey House and she didn't care. She would be Mrs. Edward Ferrars, and he would be with her always-sandy hair, crumpled smile, sunburnt like a farmer, a gentleman farmer, a gentle man, a friend.
She smiled at him and noted the sadness in his eyes. It would be hard for him to tell his mother that he was leaving the family business and going to seminary school and marrying the woman whom his sister had once declared was nothing more than a grasping relative-Edward didn't know that Elinor had overheard Fanny Dashwood's words to that affect-but she would more than make him happy. She would give him all the love his own family had withheld and she would watch the sadness in those beautiful, dear eyes fade away.
Chapter 8
"Miss Dashwood," Josiah began hesitantly. "I asked to speak with you because I..." He faltered-what was the right way to put it? 'Suspect'-'fear'-'have reason to believe'-all were true, and yet all sounded damnably presumptuous. Surely Elinor would know if Marianne were planning to audition as a dance hall girl, not that such interviews required much actual auditioning, and not that Josiah had more to go on than inductive logic and a fair insight into the character of John Willoughby and his friends. But Elinor couldn't know, for if she did, she would never let her sister take such a step.
"Yes, Colonel..." Elinor prompted. Normally, Josiah Brandon ranked as one of her favorite people with whom to pass the time of day, but this morning she was in no mood for small talk. She was still nursing a grudge that her dinner with Edward had been so thoroughly disrupted by John and Fanny Dashwood, who had cleared out of La Junta as soon as they had seen Edward safely on the Express to Los Angeles.
"Your sister, Miss Marianne..."- he faltered. There was no good way to say what he needed to tell her.
"My sister is young, Colonel," Elinor helped him, assuming that he was about to ask for leave to court her. Though the young lady in question would have scoffed at such an idea, Elinor thought his gesture rather gallant and sweet in an old-fashioned sort of courtly way.
Josiah blushed, knowing what Elinor had assumed. Marianne would laugh out loud at the two of them if she knew what her sister had assumed. But he saw an opening and seized it-"Yes, she is young and gifted, and, forgive the presumption, but innocent as well." His breath and words came quickly now-"I fear that she believes the promises men make regarding her talent, not but that she isn't very talented, but ... forgive me, she should be in Denver studying with a classical master, not here..."
"...Earning her living," Elinor completed rather shortly. "I would dearly love for Marianne to be training with a master, but life has dealt us a rather difficult hand and play it we must with honor. Working for a living is not dishonorable, Colonel. And using one's talents to put bread on the table is not dishonorable."
His voice cracked as he spoke-"I'm afraid I have offended. My apologies, Miss Dashwood-forgive me, it's just that I believe Miss Marianne may take a step that she, that you, will regret."
"Thank you for your concern, Colonel. I know you mean well, but my sister is not a child any longer, nor is she still the daughter of a wealthy man. We are left to find our own way, and while we appreciate our friends we both must do as we think best."
Josiah's felt sick at heart-so Elinor knew of Marianne's decision to go to Dodge and supported it. That so fine a girl would be forced to compromise herself and her ideals so thoroughly pained him deeply. He could see that her only other option was marriage and instinctively he knew that though he might offer Marianne Dashwood a fine home in Denver and the opportunity to resume her musical education with the best tutors that money could buy, she would despise herself more for accepting him under such conditions than she would if she became the queen of the dance hall girls.
Josiah took Elinor's hand and gallantly raised it to his lips.
"Would that I could help," he murmured.
"You are our friend, and that means a very great deal to both my sister and me. You keep us close to dear Mama and Margaret with your packages and letters, and knowing that you care makes all the difference."
"Would that I could do more," he repeated, shaking his head.
"You are a true Romantic, you know that, dear Colonel?" Elinor laughed, squeezing his hands in hers, a little puzzled that he hadn't asked to woo Marianne after all, and a little relieved that she wouldn't have to warn him away from her tempestuous sister. "For all your martial ways and epaulets and pistols, a true Romantic."
He left on the afternoon train. Elinor worked a double shift and resolved not to think about young men anymore.
"Dearest," Elinor began as Marianne finished playing yet another rag tune on the piano, "why are you favoring popular music? I've never heard you play such songs before. Is it for the girls?" Elinor's question was more rhetorical than otherwise as the parlor was empty except for the Dashwood sisters, all the other Harvey girls were either working or enjoying the picnic by the river that Eugenie Jennings had arranged as relief from the heat of the summer. Elinor had been surprised that Marianne had skipped the picnic herself as she generally jumped at the chance to leave the dusty town whenever she could.
"Hardly!" Marianne scoffed. She stubbornly played her favorites regardless of whether her audience could appreciate the subtleties of the compositions. "No, it's just that I decided to see whether I could play these and enjoy the experience."
"And...?"
"I can play them as well as they can be played."
"And as to enjoying them?"
"I will never understand the masses."
"You are one of the masses, Marianne," Elinor gently scolded. "You are a working girl, we both are. Our tiaras were sold, so to speak."
"Stolen, more like."
"Shh, dearest. Don't be bitter."
"I'm not bitter, just honest. And believe me, Elinor, I know that I am a working girl. That's why I'm playing these rags. It's tantamount to sin that girls can make more money playing these silly songs than Schumann."
Elinor laughed at her sister-"But you don't play for money, Marianne, you play for you."
"Only girls with tiaras get to play for themselves."
"Stop, dearest, you'll make me cry and I promised Mama that I wouldn't. Let's go to the picnic. Eugenie will have saved some ice cream for us, and ice cream on a hot day is better than a tiara. Right, Marianne?"
"Right, Elinor."
In the morning, Elinor rose early as usual. Marianne's bed was empty. The trunk beneath the bed was gone. A note was on the washstand-
I have gone to play rags until I can buy back our tiaras.
Shouldn't be long as this whole country has gone mad for jingly music.
Ta-Ra-Ra-Boom-De-Ay !!!
Love, Marianne
P.S. Don't worry Mama as I'll be back before I'll be missed.