The Journey of Josephine Cain (2 page)

Josephine bypassed her maid and entered the dressing room that housed her many gowns—beautiful, lush dresses befitting the daughter of General Reginald Cain. She perused the line of gowns until she found the one that suited her mood. “Here. This one.” It was an evening dress of lush velvet.

Frieda’s head shook left, then right, in a stubborn
no
. “It is simply not proper,
Liebchen
. You are to mourn your brother and cousin a full year, and then wear a deep violet—”

“I
shall
mourn them a year,” she said. “I shall mourn Thomas and William the rest of my life. But not today, please not today. I’ve just spent the entire afternoon sitting with Mother and Aunt Bernice, staring at the walls. I’ve done my duty. This evening is meant to celebrate Papa’s return—even if he is leaving again.” She looked back to the mirror, hoping Frieda would let her break the rule of etiquette just this once. “I won’t complain about wearing black for a whole month.”

“Well . . .”

Josephine kissed her cheek. “It will make Papa so happy. You’ll see.”

“You have always been your father’s pet.”

It was true. They shared a closeness that belied the time they had spent apart during the four long years of war, and this last year of post-war rebuilding. They both loved learning and adventure, and they shared an exhilaration about life’s possibilities.

Unlike Mother.

Although Josephine loved her mother, their interests were as far apart as black and white, up and down, North and South. Always a homebody, Mother had planted even deeper roots since Thomas was killed.

Frieda interrupted her thoughts. “Come now. Since you have won the skirmish, let us get this gown on you.”

Frieda Schultz was Papa’s unmarried cousin. She had lived with the Cains for as long as Josephine could remember, first as her nanny and then as her lady’s maid. Josephine loved her maid more than she loved her mother. She had certainly spent more time with Frieda, who had virtually raised her from birth and schooled her in reading, writing, and other important lessons of life. Mother might have run the household, but Frieda had run the children’s lives, and both Josephine and Thomas had looked to her for maternal nourishment. It was backward to what she knew she should feel, but so it was.

But then a year ago the balance of the household had shifted permanently when they had received news that Thomas and cousin William had been killed in the final days of the war. Aunt Bernice moved in, and suddenly, daily, Josephine was asked to sit with her mother and aunt as
they grieved. During those interminable hours, Josephine felt as if
she
were dying a slow death.

The dress on, Josephine relished the feel of the luxurious fabric against her skin. She walked up and back, enjoying how the weight of the skirt swayed back and forth like a bell when she walked, embodying the grace and elegance of womanhood. It felt so good to wear something pretty again. If only Mother would allow her to go out and socialize . . . How was she supposed to find a husband while held prisoner in her own home?

Or didn’t Mother care? She often wondered whether Mother liked the notion of Josephine remaining by her side forever.
Till death do us part
.

That was
not
acceptable. Josephine wanted a husband, a house, a family . . . all the things girls her age dreamed about. Between the restrictions of mourning and the distressing fact that the pool of young marriageable men was sadly smaller, Josephine longed for something exceptional to burst into her life, take her breath away, and make her happy.

Happiness wasn’t a bad thing, was it? Wasn’t this country founded on the principle that its citizens had the right to the “pursuit of happiness”?

The clock on the mantel struck five. Papa’s train was arriving in Washington this very hour, and he would be home for dinner. And then . . .

She was more than ready to talk with him about her plan.

Josephine turned to Frieda. “Will he be pleased?”

Frieda kissed her forehead. “How could he be otherwise?”

Josephine descended the stairs and braced herself.

As expected, her mother and aunt were seated at either side of the fireplace in the parlor, two she-bears enshrouded in dark mantles. Only their plump faces and short fingers provided Josephine’s eyes some relief from the color of death. Even their palms were covered in black fingerless gloves. They existed in this state of near-hibernation, exuding an unspoken warning for others to stay away:
Do not disturb. Our growl is as fierce as our bite
.

Josephine paused outside the doorway in an attempt to ignite a spark of courage. She didn’t wish to offend by her choice of dress, but
the truth was, wearing mourning would not bring the boys back, nor would it erase the sadness that gnawed at her heart. Josephine prayed that someday sorrow’s teeth would be worn down, lessening its sting.

She looked down at her dress, adjusting the neckline to properly cover her bosom so she would cause the least offense. Her gold bracelet sparkled in the candlelight, and she held her hand in midair, second-guessing her choice to dress up for Papa’s homecoming.

Dowd, their butler, entered the foyer behind her left shoulder. “Miss Josephine?”

She was forced to follow through with her intent. “Papa should be here any moment, Dowd. Please make sure everything is ready for his arrival.”

“We are well prepared, miss.” His eyes traveled the length of her dress, as if to imply that
she
was not.

Hadn’t Papa seen enough death and mourning? Surely he would be happy to see his daughter—his one and only surviving child—at her prettiest. Especially since he’d been gone for two months in the Nebraska territory working on an enormous new project, a railroad that would someday connect the East Coast with the West. She hoped he would appreciate her effort tonight. Even more than that, she hoped he would listen to her proposal.

Her future depended on it.

Josephine squared her shoulders and entered the bears’ den.

As if by a common decision, her mother and aunt looked up from their tea, set their cups upon their saucers with a near synchronized
clink
, and opened their mouths to speak.

Mother’s words came out first. “What
are
you wearing, Josephine? Where—”

“—is your mourning?” Aunt Bernice finished.

Josephine’s heart fluttered in her throat. “I set it aside in honor of Papa’s return.”

“There is no
setting aside
,” Mother said.

“One does not set aside mourning,” her aunt parroted.

Josephine moved to the apex of the womanly triangle, taking care not
to venture close enough to be drawn into their lair. “I mean no disrespect for either Thomas or William. I love them and miss them as much as anyone.”

“By this action you show otherwise,” Mother said.

“Otherwise,” Aunt said, shaking her head.

How could she explain? “What is in my heart doesn’t need to be worn on my sleeve, does it? Besides, today is a day of celebration. Today, for a short while, Papa is finally ours again.”

For the briefest moment, Josephine saw her mother’s eyes clear, as if she had emerged from the well of death and glimpsed the sunlight.

Then the veil returned, and Mother sank into the pit of sorrow once again. “You must change your gown, Josephine. You will not disrespect our sacrifice.”

Aunt Bernice shook her head. “No disrespect.”

But before she could plead her case a second time, the front door opened.

“Papa!” Josephine ran into his arms, pressing her cheek against the wool of his coat. “I have missed you so much! I’m so glad you’re finally home.”

He wrapped his arms around her, and she felt his beard brush against her hair. He kissed her head. “My sweet girl. How I have missed you.”

She closed her eyes and breathed deeply the scent of him: the musk that had always been his special scent, and the hint of cigar smoke and manly work that was Papa.

He gently pushed her back, taking her hands in his. “Let me look at you.”

Her choice to wear the green dress was brought front and center. Would he chide her for her choice?

Papa spun her under his arm, allowing the wide bell skirt a full swirl. “You take my breath away, daughter. You are a vision of beauty.”

“She is a vision of impropriety.”

Mother had left her den and stood in the doorway.

“Lizzie,” Papa said, extending his arms to her.

But Mother shook her head and took a step back. “I wish you would do something about your daughter, Reginald. For her to wear a party
dress when we are in mourning, and more than that, the dress she wore the night the president was shot.”

Josephine drew in a breath and looked down at the dress. Her memories rushed back. This
was
the dress she had worn on that dreadful night.

The president of the United States had been assassinated while Josephine watched, while she envied Clara Harris for sharing the presidential box. Josephine still suffered the guilt of her frivolous nature.

But more was lost that night than their president. With the assassination, Josephine’s faith faltered. For how could the Almighty allow such a thing to happen to so great a man? Especially when peace had just been achieved.

The president’s death had marked the beginning of her family’s descent into sorrow. As the nation grieved President Lincoln, the Cains received news of the deaths of their boys. Thomas had died in the last days of the war at Sayler’s Creek, and William had died in a Confederate prisoner-of-war camp. With that news, Josephine’s mother and aunt had donned their bereavement black and had silently declared their own lives over but for the bothersome breath in their bodies.

Josephine was drawn out of her memories by Papa’s voice. “Actually, I am relieved to see some color. With more than six hundred thousand dead, the entire nation is wearing black. Enough, I say. It is time to move forward.”

Mother shook her head. “We must not forget the past.”

“We must not forget, but we must not let it drown us.” He looked at Josephine, as if his next words were mostly for her. “As I hinted at in my last letter, I have good news. I have been officially offered the position to oversee the construction of the Union Pacific rail lines as they head west across the Nebraska territory.” His shoulders straightened as if his next statement were especially important. “Work on the railroad has already begun in California, heading east, and I am to supervise the construction heading west. I have some business to attend to here in Washington, but then I shall be leaving again.”

Josephine took a deep breath.
If everything goes as I’ve planned, I shall be going with you
.

Mother shuddered. “You are a general, not a railroad worker.”

“I am not a general anymore, Lizzie. That duty is done.”

Aunt Bernice offered the next hurdle. “You are a lawyer.”

Papa waved his hand. “I
was
a lawyer, as I was a general. There are enough lawyers in Washington. Besides, since the war, the soldiers have gone home to reclaim their lives, and many need jobs. The railroad will provide those jobs. I am used to soldiers, and they are used to me. It’s a good match. And now, to be chosen to oversee such an important task . . . it is an honor. And it would be a continuation of the president’s dream.”

Mother shook her head. “But the West, Reginald. It is so very . . . west.”

He looked to the floor. “That it is. The line starts in Omaha and will not end until it connects with the Central Pacific’s line coming east from Sacramento.
They
have been laying track for eighteen months. We have barely started. There is much at stake for the line that lays the most. Compensation, land, property. And power.”

Mother shook her head, her expression heavy with distaste. “So you’re battling again? West versus East? Hasn’t this country seen enough battles between North and South?”

He cocked his head as though he’d never thought of it in that manner. “This is not a war, my dear, but a competition. The United States thrives on competition. It brings out our best. And it brings about progress.”

Aunt Bernice’s eyebrows rose, as if she were considering his words. “The West always intrigued my George. The thought of unknown worlds . . .”

“Men,” Mother said. Her tone suggested the species was deplorable.

Papa turned to look at his wife. “If it were not for the ambition and vision of men, this country would still consist of thirteen colonies under British rule.”

“That is true,” Aunt conceded.

Mother flashed her sister a look and then led her back to their chairs by the fireplace.

Good riddance
. Josephine linked her arm in Papa’s. “May I speak with you, please? I have something important to talk to you about.”

His eyebrows rose. “Is everything all right?”

“Well, of course . . . actually . . . not really.” She sighed deeply. “If we might go to your study? Alone?”

Before he could answer, Dowd announced that dinner was served. As they moved toward the dining room, Papa leaned close and whispered to his daughter, “We will talk after dinner.”