NoRegretsColeNC (22 page)

What
she loved most, of course, was the vast Pacific Ocean. She liked to visit the
wharf on the northern-most edge of the city, listening to the Italian fisherman
as they worked on their heavy nets or unloaded the day’s catch of fish and
crab. It thrilled her to stand on the pier and gaze out over the waters that
seemed to stretch out forever. The sound of gulls and the sharp tang of the sea
air always refreshed her, made her feel glad to be alive.

On that
bright, sunny morning, Hattie couldn’t afford to stand idly about enjoying the
scenic beauty. A new week had come, tomorrow would mark the beginning of a new
month, and she had urgent business to attend. As she walked briskly up
O’Farrell Street, her boot heels clicked over the pavement. She’d spent days
poring over classifieds in the
Chronicle
searching
out rooms for rent at reasonable rates.

Checking
the notes she’d made, Hattie took a deep breath. She squared her shoulders and
approached the first address on her list.

Her
knock at the door was quickly answered by a young maidservant, a girl very near
Hattie’s age.

“I’m
here to see about the room advertised.”

The
pretty young woman with red hair and freckles nodded. Although she offered a
pleasant smile, her blue-eyed gaze swept over Hattie’s form. “I’ll get Mrs.
Arnold,” she said. After a slight hesitation, she added, “I’m not sure the room
is still available.” Directing Hattie toward a small parlor, she instructed her
to wait.

Only
too glad to oblige, Hattie took a seat in a high-backed chair near a cozy
fireplace. A worn, but respectable Persian carpet covered the dark flooring,
and a jug of dried flowers added a friendly touch to the room.

The
warmth and friendliness dissipated like wisps of early morning fog when an
imposing older woman stepped into the room. Without offering so much as a
greeting, she eyed Hattie from the brim of her hat to the toes of her boots,
finally nodding and uttering a terse “Good day.”

“I’ve
come to see about the room. The one you advertised in the
Chronicle
.” Hattie got to her feet, her pregnant belly making her
movements awkward and slow. Still clutching the list of addresses in her hand,
she held it up. “Is the room still available?”

“Yes,
but it’s quite small, suitable for only a single individual. I believe that was
expressly stated in the advertisement.”

Hattie
nodded. “Yes. That’s precisely what I’m looking for. May I see the room—
”

“Where
is your husband?” The woman’s gaze went immediately to Hattie’s swollen belly.
“You don’t appear to be in mourning, so I doubt you’ve been widowed.”

Hattie
bit her lip. Already she understood that her chances of getting the room
depended entirely upon the answer she gave. That is to say, upon the lie she
told. It would be easy enough to spin a little tale, to speak of her husband
being called away for a job. Or maybe she could somehow convince the woman that
despite her lack of mourning apparel, she was a woman who’d lost her beloved
spouse.

She
could do neither. Hattie had never told a serious lie in her life. Except for
the fib she’d told the Kellermans the night she went to the boardinghouse—which
is what had ultimately gotten her into this fix—the only untruths she’d ever
uttered had been simple, helpful little words designed to lift flagging
spirits, like assuring Willie Morse he’d pull through even when his life had
hung in the balance.

Thinking
of him now and of the circumstances that had brought her to that time and
place, she lifted her chin.

“I have
no husband. I’ve never been married, and I have no plans to change that. I am,
however, a decent young woman and I have funds—”

Already
Mrs. Arnold’s head was shaking back and forth. “No, I can’t allow you to come
into my home. I run a respectable establishment here. I have families living
here.” She picked up a small porcelain bell and rang it twice. “I don’t rent to
your sort.”

The
young maid responded immediately to the summons. Looking down, she escorted Hattie
to the door.

On
to the next possibility.
Hattie sighed, noted the next address on her list, and set off to the north,
her steps a bit slower now than before.

One
after another, doors closed in her face. Some of the boardinghouse owners were
apologetic, others were downright rude. Always there was the silent accusation
behind their refusal to rent to her, the judgmental look in their knowing eyes.

You are not a good woman
.

Hattie
had no choice. She would have to lie. She would have to dress herself in a drab
black gown, wear a dreadful black-veiled hat, put on thick black stockings and
go about pretending to be a grief-stricken widow. Hattie sighed. She had no
wedding band on her finger any more than she had mourning clothes to slip into,
and even if she possessed them, she couldn’t bear the thought of perpetuating
such deception.

One
more attempt, she decided, bolstering her spirits. After all, hadn’t she always
heard that honesty was the best policy? How many times had she reminded others
of that fact?

Putting
a fresh smile on her face, she hurried down a narrow brick walk and rapped at
another entrance.

Moments
later, she found herself staring at yet another closed door. No husband? No
room.
As simple as that.
Truly, she should have been
clever enough to realize that no one would let out a room to a single—and very
expectant—young woman. Although she still believed herself virtuous in many
ways, whatever goodness she possessed had been negated by her foolish actions
in giving herself to Willie. She’d placed herself among the ranks of shameful,
immoral women, had made herself no better than a common prostitute.

No,
even worse. Hattie blanched at the thought. At least whores got paid for their
services.

Too
weary to continue on, Hattie tucked the list of addresses into a pocket and
turned back. Since arriving in San Francisco, she’d been lodging at the
Occidental Hotel. Her funds were nearly depleted.

Unfortunately
for Hattie, financial management proved far trickier than she’d been led to
believe. To hear Miss Helen
Brundage
speak of it at
the Female Academy, any woman with half a brain should be able to keep
accounts, maintain accurate records of income and expenditures, and provide for
herself quite nicely, so long as she lived in a frugal manner. In their
workbook assignments, budgeting had seemed simple enough, but those neat
columns of figures that always balanced perfectly in the textbooks had nothing
in common with reality, Hattie now realized. Those paper-and-pencil examples
didn’t consider that sometimes there just wasn’t enough income to cover all
the out-go
, and what was she supposed to do now?

Her
only hope was to find a cheap room and pinch her pennies tight enough to make
them last until after the baby came. She would require a bit of time to
recuperate, but as soon as she was able she would find gainful employment.

And what will you do with your
child, Hattie Mae?

A
nagging voice insider her head scolded her incessantly, reminding her of the
many terrible choices she’d made. She was about to bring a child into the world
without benefit of a father’s love and guidance. Worse still, she would have to
leave her child in someone else’s care while she went off into the world to
make a living. Even if she found gainful employment after the baby came, and
even if she somehow managed to find a place to live and a good-hearted woman to
look after the child, how could Hattie ever earn enough to support herself and
pay for child care, too?

She
knew of the Daughters of Charity. The sisters ran a well-organized orphanage a
few miles to the south of the city. Although Hattie doubted they would help
her
—owing to her shameful fall from grace—they
would help her child, if it came down to that.

Too
weary to walk any farther, she searched for a place where she might sit for a
moment. Most women, of course, would never think of going out while with child,
but Hattie now accepted the fact that she wasn’t a typical mother-to-be. She
still believed that a moderate amount of walking each day benefited both her
and her child—she’d come across that notation in one of Dr. Kellerman’s books
one day—but traipsing block after block through the hilly city of San Francisco
was over-doing it by a long shot.

She
couldn’t take another step. The muscles in her legs burned from exertion, and
she’d noticed her ankles swelling up a bit. Of course, all the discomforts
would be forgotten once she held her precious child in her arms.

Hattie
stood near a small park. She spotted a bench and let out a grateful sigh.
Walking slowly toward it, she felt the baby moving in her womb. The miracle of
life stirred within her, bringing tears of joy to her eyes. But something more
stirred within.

She
worried often about her unborn child and prayed that all was as it should be.
Sometimes, as she felt odd kicks and pokes, she wondered about her baby. She’d
not seen a midwife or a doctor and could only trust that the natural order of
life was at work inside her body. She was not the first woman to give birth.
All would be well.

Now,
the constant reassurances she offered herself brought little solace, and for
the first time, she gave in to the self-pity that had been lurking at the edges
of her life since she’d fled Colorado.

What
was she going to do?

She had
no one to help her. Her money would run out within days. She would be at the
mercy of anyone—

Hattie’s
ears pricked up as she neared the bench. She’d been so lost in her worries she
hadn’t noticed the elderly gray-haired woman already seated there. Though she
sat as stiff and straight as a stone statue, little sobbing sounds came out.

“Excuse
me,” Hattie said in a gentle voice, not wanting to frighten the woman. “Are you
in need of help, ma’am? Is there something I can do for you?” She came around
to the front of the bench, knelt awkwardly down, and placed a comforting touch
on the woman’s tightly-clasped hands. “Is there someone I should get for you?”
She looked
around,
not at all sure how she could
manage to summon anyone for assistance but knowing she must do whatever she
could.

“No,
no, there’s nothing to be done for me.” The woman mustered a slight smile. She
unclasped her hands and drew a kerchief from beneath her drab gray shawl. “Pay
no mind to me, dear. I’m only a lonely old woman given to bouts of tears now
and then.” She dabbed at her eyes, blew her nose, and then looked more closely
at Hattie.
“Heavens, dear!
What are you doing on your
knees? You’re expecting! Please, get up. Come, sit here beside me.” The woman
patted the bench and scooted over a bit to make room.

“I’m
fine. It’s not my time yet.” Hattie rose, stretched, and gratefully settled
herself onto the wooden bench. Her sigh showed her relief. “My, but it does
feel good to be off my feet.”

“You
should be at home resting. Surely your husband doesn’t approve—”

Hattie
cut her off. “I don’t have a husband, and before you ask, no, I’m not a widow.
I’m a woman who made a mistake.” Her eyes widened as her heart protested. “No,
I won’t say that. What I did was wrong, but I refuse to count it as a mistake.
I don’t regret it.” Shaking, she burst into sobs. “I’m going to have a
beautiful child, and somehow, everything is going to work out, and—”

“Hush,
dear. It’s not good to get overwrought.”

In a
turnabout from Hattie’s earlier gesture, this woman now became the comforter.
She offered no scorn, no judgment. Neither did she ask for explanations or
excuses. She simply reached out, took Hattie’s hand in hers, and held it fast.

The
woman’s tender touch imparted strength. Hattie grew calm. Gradually, her tears
subsided.

“I fell
in love,” she whispered. “I let my heart lead me to places where I wasn’t ready
to go.”

“You’re
not the first young woman who’s traveled down that path.” She turned to face
Hattie. “What of the man? Has he been dealt with accordingly?” Her face paled.
“Is the cad married, by chance? That’s how it so often goes.”

Hattie
nearly laughed. “No, he’s not married. He’s a good man, Miss…”

“Mrs.
Quisenberry
,” the woman said with a faint smile. “But I’m a
widow, dear. I lost my husband many years ago. I do still love him. I do still
miss him. It makes me almost sad when someone addresses me by my married name.
Please, call me Virginia.”

“Yes,
ma’am, of course.
My name is Hattie. Hattie Mae Richards.” She truly liked this woman whose
gentle touch and quiet voice had brought a moment of peace. Most likely she
would never see the woman again. She could speak her heart and share her
deepest feelings without fear of censure or reproach.

“So,
tell me about this young man who stole your heart.”

Glad to
oblige, Hattie nodded. “As I was saying, Willie is a good man. He tried to do
right by me. I wouldn’t marry him.”