In The Face Of Death (15 page)

Tomorrow I will be speaking to a Diego Gilez, who is said to be a fine guide, familiar with all the trails south and eastward as far as New Mexico Territory. He has a group of six men with him, two of whom I understand were once friars and were sent to minister to the Indians of the deserts, and therefore can assist me. I hope he will be able to undertake the journey this autumn, so that I may not have to winter here, or even in Monterey or San Diego, which I am convinced would be a mistake for many reasons. . . .

Now that my book is nearly complete, I will have to employ a copyist to ready it for publication. I will send one copy of the work to Amsterdam, and keep the other with me, as I have done with the earlier excerpts I have prepared as monographs. This will be the fourth copyist I have seen. None of the others were satisfactory, wanting to interpolate their own style atop my own. I trust that Missus Stephens is as capable as I have heard. . . .

Euphemia Stephens wore widow’s black, including a veil over her face. She shook Madelaine’s hand and said, “I had no idea you were so young.” Since Euphemia herself was well past fifty, her shock was more excusable, or so Madelaine thought, than if the other woman had been nearer her own age. “Pardon me; I had no right to say that.” She made no effort to unbutton her coat, but held it closed, showing she did not want to be rid of it, nor did she attempt to take off her hat, though she did lift her veil.

“You have every right,” Madelaine countered. “I would prefer you speak your mind, whatever my own opinions may be. We shall get on much better if you do.” She indicated the withdrawing room where her desk stood; there were two chairs near it. “Please sit down,” she offered.

“Thank you.” Very properly Euphemia Stephens sat down in the straighter-backed of the two, opened her large handbag and drew out several sheets of papers tied with a plain blue ribbon. “These are my recommendations, if you wish to examine them.”

Madelaine took them and glanced through them, noticing that all of them were in different hands, and on dissimilar paper-stocks. “They seem genuine enough.”

“You did not read them,” said Euphemia, sounding disappointed.

“Why should I? You said yourself they are recommendations. It does not seem likely that any of these letters would register complaints.” Madelaine smiled quickly. “How long have you been a copyist, Missus Stephens?”

“I began the work when my husband fell ill, six years ago, and have been at it ever since.” She looked down at her gloved hands. “He died not quite two years ago.”

“And you are still in mourning,” Madelaine said in some surprise, for it was not often that women in California wore formal mourning for more than six months, if that long.

“We were married thirty-eight years, he and I; at my age it would be foolish to set my weeds aside.” She coughed delicately. “He was a school teacher, at first at a secondary school in Baltimore which failed in thirty-nine; when we came here he worked in Fort Ross and Sonoma and then here for some time. We came to California in forty-one. John Sutter hired Mister Stephens to establish a school in what he called New Helvetia.”

“You must have seen many changes in that time,” Madelaine observed, thinking that at another time she would want to hear more of these events from Euphemia Stephens, but now she could ill-afford such curiosity.

“California was a change from Baltimore, that was the single greatest obstacle,” said Euphemia Stephens. “I was never more homesick in my life than those first two years in Fort Ross and Sonoma. Fort Ross was the strangest place of all, because it had been Russian.” She coughed delicately. “Mister Stephens felt the change more keenly than I did, though he never complained of it.”

“It must have been hard, making so great a change,” said Madelaine.

“Yes, it was,” agreed Euphemia without any trace of self-pity. “But it was preferable to living off the efforts of our son, which was the only other possibility at the time.” She looked speculatively at Madelaine. “Your note indicated you have a manuscript you wish to have copied. How long is it?”

“In my hand it is slightly more than three hundred pages.” Madelaine saw that Euphemia was surprised at this number, and went on, “I think you will find that in a regular copperplate hand, that will become closer to four hundred than three.”

“A work of some . . . length, I perceive,” said Euphemia, doing her best to sound undaunted by this prospect. “And how long will I have to copy it?”

“Just under four weeks, if my plans are not disrupted,” said Madelaine. “A challenge, I know, but not an impossible one.” Her smile this time was light with amusement. “Yes, I look like little more than a child, I know, but I assure you that my appearance is deceptive.”

“Not that it is my business, in any case,” Euphemia said hastily. “It is not for me to question your capabilities, beyond the capability to pay my fee.”

“True enough,” said Madelaine. “And for that, you may consult Mister Sherman at Lucas and Turner, who manages my funds for me. He will assure you that you will have your money in full when your task is complete. I will leave it up to him to decide if he will give you a portion of payment at the start of your employment.” She spoke pleasantly, without any hint of apprehension, and then indicated the work to be done. “I have ink and pens of several sorts at hand for your use. If you have other tools you want, you have only to ask for them.”

“It will take me a day or two to learn what is necessary in this instance.” She coughed delicately. “I would appreciate a fire in the grate. These cold mornings do not favor my old bones.”

“Certainly. I have a man in my employ who will see to your comforts. I have other demands upon my time. You will not find me looking over your shoulder, Missus Stephens. I will rely on your competence to enable you to complete your work without any urgings from me.” Madelaine regarded the older woman with interest. “Is that satisfactory to you?”

“Very much so,” said Euphemia. “I am not one who wishes to be closely observed at my task.” She inspected the materials set on her desk and nodded her approval. “Yes. This is quite satisfactory. You need only provide me with a rolling blotter and I will be prepared to set about the work.” She lifted the paper on the desk and felt it. “A fine grade.”

“So I hoped,” said Madelaine, knowing that paper of this quality was not often found so far west.

She inspected the manuscript she was to copy, flipping her way through the loose pages. “Your text appears to be very clean; few lines are overwritten and you are very specific in your notes regarding changes.”

“There is no advantage in confusing you, which would only serve to slow your work and annoy me,” said Madelaine, her expression serious without being somber. “It would benefit neither of us.”

Euphemia Stephens turned toward Madelaine, the first sign of a change in her proper widow’s reserve becoming apparent as she did her best to smile. “Does that mean you are willing to give me a chance at this job?”

“Of course,” said Madelaine, surprised that Euphemia was startled. “Is there any reason why I should not?”

“No,” Euphemia answered, coloring to the roots of her hair. “But so often a man is wanted for this. . . .”

Madelaine sighed. “I know of no reason why a man should be a superior copyist to a woman, especially when working for a woman; in the past I have found that men were more likely to attempt to interject their own observations and opinions onto my work than women have been. Since I dislike disputing my own work, I believe that this is the most practical way to avoid such an impasse.” She touched her manuscript where Euphemia Stephens had placed it. “I have worked for several years to prepare this. I do not want to be discouraged about it now.”

Euphemia nodded. “Your point is well-taken, Madame,” she said formally. “I will strive to abide by your wishes in preparing the copy.”

“Excellent,” said Madelaine, holding out her hand. “At what rate do you charge for your work?”

“I have usually charged twenty cents for a completed page, with a guarantee of recopying a page without cost to you if any error can be found upon it.” She was clearly aware that her price was higher than the current standard rate, but her promise of corrections made free was a rare offer.

“I will give you twenty-five cents for a completed page, and meals at this house, if it will speed you,” said Madelaine.

Euphemia stared at her. “That’s . . . very generous,” she said at last, turning toward Madelaine with increased respect. “Are you sure you can afford to do this? If the manuscript is to be as long as you believe it will, then upon its completion you will owe me—” she calculated rapidly, eyes squinting “—one hundred dollars.”

“At least,” said Madelaine. “And given the high expenses in this city, it will not last you long, no matter how reasonable the costs at your rooming house may be.”

“It is true that San Francisco is a very expensive place to live,” said Euphemia. “And I will not claim that your offer is not welcome. But I do not wish you to make yourself poor on my behalf. I will be satisfied with my usual charges.”

Madelaine shook her head. “I would prefer you let me give you this incentive to do your work with dispatch,” she said crisply. “It will ensure that I have the opportunity to require effort from you.”

“I suppose that’s reasonable,” said Euphemia after a short pause to consider what Madelaine said. “I will have to leave at sunset every day, but I will contrive to be here soon after sunrise, so that you will have the most of my labors.” She glanced toward the windows. “You have excellent light here.”

“And lamps if they are needed,” said Madelaine. “If it turns out that you must stay beyond sunset, I can arrange for a carriage to take you home.”

Euphemia shrugged. “I have no wish to inconvenience you.”

“It would be a greater inconvenience to have the manuscript unfinished before my departure,” said Madelaine, and cocked her head in the direction of the stairs, visible through the open hall door. “I have a great many things to do before I leave, and I will have to rely on you to work with minimal supervision. If that is satisfactory to you? . . . ”

“My dear Madame de Montalia, I could not arrange things more to my liking,” she said, and took Madelaine’s proffered hand to seal their bargain.

San Francisco, 7 October, 1855

How still it is this evening. After a week of wind and fog it has turned bright and hot. I was surprised at this sudden change, and coming when it does in the year, though I now understand that it is not unusual to the region. I was told that this is one of the reasons vintners have been flocking to the inland valleys north of here, where they can plant vines with a reasonable hope that their growing season will be long and warm. . . .

Euphemia Stephens has proven most adept at her work, and I am pleased that she is so willing to do this task quickly and with so little need of my tutoring; I was concerned that the names of the Indians, and some of my transliterations of their words would cause her problems, but she has assured me that her work among those Russians remaining at Fort Ross inured her to variant spellings and language. I am confident that she will finish her work in the time specified. . . .

Diego Gilez has broken his arm and will not be able to guide me on my travels. He has recommended a man called Dutch Hagen, whose accent is faint but without doubt Austrian, not Dutch. He has been in the West for nearly thirty years, or so he claims. He is a slight, stringy fellow, not quite six feet tall, and that all sinew and bone, with long, white hair and pale blue eyes; his skin is leathery, his face filled with hard wrinkles. He has agreed to guide me, and though the sum he demands is high, Tecumseh tells me the man’s reputation, as far as he can determine, is very good in an occupation over-run with rogues and worse. He advises me that if I must go at all, I should content myself with Mister Hagen’s terms. So I have consented to give him one third of his fee at the start of the journey, with the assurance that my bank draft will be honored in St. Louis at the end of it. Hagen has accepted Tecumseh’s word that I have money enough to do this, and has arranged to purchase supplies over the next two weeks against our departure. He claims he will need to have another three men with him, and has reluctantly agreed to bring along one woman to cook, at Tecumseh’s demand for propriety; once again he is determined to preserve my reputation.

It is arranged that we will depart no later than 10 October, no matter what the weather. It is tempting to delay, but I must not, for my own sake as well as Tecumseh’s. . . .

“I know it is what must be done, and I hate it,” Sherman whispered, his hand tangled in her hair, his leg between hers, his body replete, tired, and yet unwilling to sleep; it was after midnight and the city beyond the house on Franklin Street was quiet.

Madelaine shifted her position so that she could lift herself up enough to look into his face. “I will miss you, Tecumseh.”

“I will miss you, too, and be damned for it,” he said softly, the usual tension gone out of his features, making him look younger than he was. The hand in her hair moved down to brush her face lightly, and he stared into her eyes, wanting to pierce more than the night. “I should never have let myself become. . . .” He drew her down to kiss her searchingly.

She gave herself over to his mouth, opening herself to his growing renewed need, lying back as he made his way down her body as if by passion alone he could take the whole of her into himself. As he moved between her thighs, he gave a harsh sigh, then lowered his head. Madelaine caught her fingers in his fine red hair. “What’s the matter?” she asked, sensing the return of his ambivalence.

He raised his eyes enough to meet hers. “It has nothing to do with you,” he told her, touching the soft, hidden folds of flesh and relishing the shiver that went through her.

“If it impairs our loving, it has something to do with me,” she said as gently as she could.

“Later,” he muttered.

“Now,” she insisted, concern more than determination coloring her inflection.