The Journey of Josephine Cain (5 page)

He could already tell she was her father’s prize.

Which made everything quite perfect.

Lewis saw the others put their napkins in their laps. Yes, yes. He remembered now. It had been a long time since he’d
dined
.

A footman ladled soup from a tureen on the sideboard. It smelled delicious, and his stomach calmed. The ladies were served first, then the men. It was cream-of-something. He didn’t much care. It was hot, and
he knew it was only the first of many courses. He would not go to bed hungry tonight.

“I hope you like cream of asparagus, Mr. Simmons,” Mrs. Cain said.

“It is a favorite.”

He waited until she took the first spoonful, his mother’s teachings coming back to him.

“Tell us about your family, Mr. Simmons,” she said.

“My father was in transportation—steamships, to be exact. He worked with Cornelius Vanderbilt up in New York.”

“The Commodore?”

“You have heard of Mr. Vanderbilt?”

“Of course we have. Everyone has.” Mrs. Cain seemed properly impressed. “Your father’s name?”

Lewis hesitated for only a moment. “Thomas Simmons.”

“Thomas!” Mrs. Cain said. “That was our son’s name.”

“It’s a fine name,” he said with an inward smile.

Mrs. Cain touched a finger to her lips, thinking. “I believe we may have met your father when we were in New York before the war. Don’t you think so, Reginald?”

“It could very well be. The name Simmons sounds very familiar.”

Lewis suppressed another smile. This was going better than he could have hoped.

“Are you involved in shipping too?” Miss Cain asked.

“That would be my father’s wish, but he’s given me permission to pursue my dream.”

“Mr. Simmons is a wonderful artist,” the general explained.

Lewis was happy for the praise—and the designation. “Artist” sounded better than “illustrator” and far better than the truth.

Miss Cain’s interest must have been piqued. “What sort of artist?”

He hesitated, then risked saying, “A good one.”

They all laughed. An encouraging sign.

“I meant, what medium do you use?”

“A few. But I prefer pen and ink.”

The general added more explanation. “Mr. Simmons’s illustrations
have been seen in many East Coast periodicals. Do you remember the drawing of Lincoln’s assassination in Ford’s Theatre that was in the papers?”

She looked to her plate. “I do not need a drawing to remember.”

Lewis set his hand upon the table between them. His voice was soft. “I was there too, Miss Cain.”

“You were?”

He pointed a finger to his temple. “The entire scene is pressed indelibly upon my memory.”

“And then upon paper,” the general said.

“But why would you immortalize such a horrible moment of our history?” Miss Cain asked.

“Josephine!” her mother said.

“No,” Lewis said, “’tis a fair question. As an artist, I feel a responsibility to capture historical moments for all time.”
That I was working backstage as a stagehand need not be mentioned
.

“But such a horrible moment—”

“Must be remembered. The turning points of a nation—good and bad—must not be forgotten.”

When no one spoke, he wondered if he’d been too bold. “I am sorry. I shouldn’t—”

“No,” Miss Cain interrupted. “You are right.”

“But on to happier thoughts,” the general said. “When I was at the newspaper office, the editor there, Mr. Wilson, offered me two extra tickets to the opera.
The Marriage of Figaro
is playing. Your favorite, Josephine.”

Lewis saw her blush, and with another glance at her father, he knew that now was the time to do what he was expected to do. “Your father has been kind enough . . . I would be very honored if you would accompany me, Miss Cain.”

Mrs. Cain interceded. “I hardly think the opera is appropriate while we are in mourning.”

“Most inappropriate,” the aunt said.

“And you two most certainly cannot go unaccompanied,” Mrs. Cain continued.

Lewis wasn’t pleased that the general had created this faux pas. “Of course. Forgive me for bringing up such a frivolous subject.”

“Opera is not frivolous at all,” the general said. “Such magnificence of sound from voice and orchestra is heaven-sent.” He looked at his wife. “And they will not be without chaperone, my dear. Mr. Wilson’s brother and his wife have offered to meet them there. You remember Robert and Edith Wilson?”

The girl flashed her mother a pleading look, but Mrs. Cain shook her head vehemently. “No, Josephine. You may not attend.”

“But our year of full mourning is over.”

The older woman’s chin hardened. “Our mourning is never over.”

“Of course not, Lizzie,” the general said. “But I see nothing wrong with Josephine going to the opera.”

“Thomas always loved the opera,” Miss Cain said.

At the mention of this memory, tears formed in Mrs. Cain’s eyes. Her daughter pushed back from the table and rushed to her side, kneeling before her.

“I am sorry, Mother. I shouldn’t have said that and reminded you . . .”

Mrs. Cain retrieved a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. But then she nodded, and even smiled. “Thomas adored
The Marriage of Figaro
.”

Miss Cain nodded and touched her arm. “He especially loved the duet ‘
Che soave zeffiretto
.’”

“He said it sounded like two angels singing.”

Miss Cain leaned her head against her mother’s arm. “I remember sitting beside him at the opera and watching him as he listened to the duet. His eyes were always closed, his face tilted upward as if sensing that the majesty of the music came from God.”

Lewis looked to the general, wishing for help to make things right.

But then, Mrs. Cain touched her daughter’s cheek. “You may go to the opera, Josephine. Remember Thomas through the music.”

“I remember him with every breath I take.”

In that moment, Lewis could imagine how Mrs. Cain used to be before grieving had become her occupation. But then she looked away,
and the mask of mourning dropped into place. “Well then,” she said, looking out over the table.

Miss Cain stood, but before she returned to her place, she kissed her mother’s cheek.

“Very good,” the general said. “To the opera you shall go.”

Lewis was delighted.

And petrified. Although the tickets were complimentary, there would be other expenses. A carriage, and perhaps dinner after the opera . . .

It would require money he didn’t have.

But money he could get. He had his ways.

“Thank you for the delicious meal, Mrs. Cain,” Lewis said as he gathered his hat.

“Of course, Mr. Simmons. You are welcome in our home anytime.”

She offered him a shy smile, which surprised him. Obviously dropping his fork on the carpet hadn’t offended her too badly.

Lewis nodded to Miss Cain. “Shall I fetch—come for you—at half past seven?”

“That would be perfect,” she said. “I look forward to it.”

“Very good,” the general said to him. “I will see you out.”

Once the two men took the steps to the street, the general reached into the inner pocket of his coat. He pulled out the two tickets. “For you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I know you must think me very presumptuous for pressing you to escort my daughter, but after speaking with you at the
Chronicle
offices, and getting a nod from Mr. Wilson . . . I am not usually so impulsive, but everything seemed to fit into place.”

“As if it were meant to be, sir.” Lewis couldn’t have expressed it better himself.

The general hesitated but a moment. “
That
, we shall see. But the truth is, my daughter’s desire to go out has been weighing heavily on me. When the opportunity arose to make her happy . . .” He sighed. “I
am
very glad to see a spark between the two of you.”

He’d seen a spark? “Thank you, General. I find your daughter very lovely and charming, and I shall look forward to spending time in her company.” It felt good to be able to speak a truth.

“Then you don’t take offense at my using you as a knight in shining armor to rescue Josephine from her prison?”

“Prison?”

“Mourning is a prison, my boy. One that can sap the life out of a person as sure as any torture.”

Lewis nodded. He knew this firsthand.

“It is time my Josephine was set free, time she was occupied with the pleasures of life. Time she was distracted.”

Lewis found the last word odd. “Distracted?”

“Never mind. Show her a pleasant time. Perhaps the opera can lead to other outings.”

“Perhaps it could.” Gaining the approval of the Cains had been far easier than Lewis had hoped. Mentioning Mr. Vanderbilt had been a good idea, as was changing his father’s name to Thomas. That his father
had
worked with the mogul made the story easier to maintain.

The general turned toward the front door. “Very good then. How lucky we ran into each other at the newspaper office.”

“Yes, indeed.” Lewis smiled as he turned away, remembering one of his father’s favorite sayings:
You make your own luck
.

Lewis Simmons’s gasp was just the reaction Josephine had hoped for.

On the night of the opera, Josephine floated down the stairs to the foyer, feeling her confidence grow with each step. She couldn’t remember the last time a man had gasped upon seeing her—if one ever had.

She watched Mr. Simmons’s eyes as he took in the sight of her.

“You take my breath away,” he said in a near-whisper.

That was what she had been aiming for. The joy she felt in putting on her ivory evening gown filled a place that had been empty too long. Yes, it was prewar fashion—for Mother would never have considered ordering something new while in mourning—but the dark gray stripes
created from satin ribbon, and the oversized bows parading up the skirt to the bodice . . . she felt pretty. Luxurious. And very, very female.

It gave her comfort to notice that Mr. Simmons was also wearing evening fashion a few years too old. As such, he wouldn’t be quick to judge. When he moved to the bottom of the stairs, she placed her gloved hand upon his and let him draw her toward the door.

Their butler, Dowd, smiled. He held her shawl, but Mr. Simmons took over and wrapped it around her shoulders. “The evening is cool,” he said near her ear.

On the contrary. Josephine felt very warm.

Josephine was surprised that nearly every seat in Grover’s Theatre was filled. She had no idea life had moved on in DC society.

She enjoyed the company of Mr. and Mrs. Wilson, who were very at ease in the setting as they greeted those around them.

Josephine recognized a few people. She saw Mrs. Wiggins and Mrs. Doolittle. They had both lost husbands in the war, and yet they were here at an opera. Perhaps it was as Papa said—with the entire country in mourning, it was imperative people looked forward instead of backward.

“Can you see well enough?” Mr. Simmons asked as the orchestra conducted its final tuning.

“Perfectly,” she said. “And I wish to thank you.”

“But the opera hasn’t started yet.”

She shook her head in a short burst. “They could be playing ‘Dixie,’ and I would thank you.”