The Journey of Josephine Cain (7 page)

Josephine swept into her dressing room. “Thank you for coming over, Rachel. I have scant notion of what is in fashion after a year in mourning.” Rachel Maddox was the perfect advisor since her father owned a large mercantile. As she was also the perfect chaperone for tonight’s dinner, being a married woman. Josephine was ever so glad to be invited along—with Lewis, of course.

“I am happy to oblige.” Rachel perused the gowns. She pulled out the skirt of a grayish-black dress and raised an eyebrow at Josephine.

“It used to be light blue. We dyed it black for mourning, but it has faded.”

“It is frightful.”

Josephine had to agree. She pulled out a white satin with red bows. “How about this?”

Rachel put her hand to her cheek and studied the gown. “The skirt is too wide. Fashion is leaving the crinoline behind.”

“In favor of what?”

“A lot of petticoats.” She smoothed her hand against her abdomen. “A smoother front is becoming the fashion.”

Josephine despaired. She didn’t have anything that owned that silhouette.

“Perhaps if you wore the white without the cage?” She sat on the tufted ottoman. “Put it on and let me see.”

It was worth a try. With Rachel’s help Josephine stepped out of her day dress, removed her crinoline undercarriage, and added additional petticoats. Then Rachel helped her lift the satin gown over her head and buttoned a few of the buttons that paraded up the back.

“Without the hoop, it’s a little long,” Josephine said, looking in the mirror.

“That is not a problem,” Rachel said. She took Frieda’s pincushion and began to pull portions of the skirt into draped flounces, drawn toward the back. Her work finished, she stepped away to measure the effect. “Add a few rosettes or bows at the top of the flounces, and you have a new gown.”

It was really quite nice. But then Josephine thought of Frieda, and the fact the dinner was tonight. “I don’t know if Frieda can alter it by then.”

“You will never know if you do not ask.” Rachel walked out of the dressing room and called out, “Frieda? We need you.”

Not a minute later, Frieda came into the room. Her eyes swept over the refashioned gown as Rachel explained the adjustments that needed to be made.

Josephine felt guilty for putting Frieda on the spot. “I apologize for the haste of it all.”

“But it is very important,” Rachel said. “We are both going to a dinner at the Wilsons’. Mr. Wilson is the editor of the
Washington Chronicle.”

“I know very well who he is,” Frieda said as she fiddled with one of the flounces. “Josephine went to the opera with his brother and wife. This one is a little too far to the left.”

“You have my gratitude in advance,” Josephine said. As soon as Frieda collected the gown in her able arms, Josephine kissed her cheek. “As always, you’re wonderful. Thank you.”

“You can thank me by having that Simmons fellow propose marriage.”

Josephine immediately looked to Rachel, whose eyebrows rose.

“I told you the name of my escort,” she explained. “And despite what Frieda says, we are not near to getting engaged.” Josephine stepped out of two of the extra petticoats and handed her day dress to Rachel, needing help to get it on.

“Why have I not heard much of him?”

“We have known each other for only a few weeks.”

Rachel tapped her chin with a finger. “Simmons, Simmons . . . I don’t know of any Simmonses in Washington society.”

Josephine’s defenses rose. “You wouldn’t know him because he comes from a wealthy New York family. His father worked with Cornelius Vanderbilt. Father introduced us.”

“I am so weary of hearing about New York society,” Rachel said with a sigh. “Vanderbilts, Astors, Guggenheims. It is as if Washington society does not exist.” She flipped the thought away. “What is he doing in Washington?”

“Mr. Simmons is an artist. He sketches important events.”

“Oh? Did he create illustrations during the war?”

That was a good question. “I don’t think so. He said he was in Europe for a time.”

“How convenient,” Rachel said, buttoning the dress.

Josephine turned ’round to face her. “What do you mean by that?”

Rachel shrugged, took Josephine by her shoulders, and spun her back again, returning to the buttons. “I am sure many of our boys would have liked to be overseas instead of fighting.” She patted Josephine, signaling she was finished. “I know I have never been more glad that I did not have brothers.” She looked into the air between them. “I do miss your Thomas. I might have fallen in love with him had I not met my Clark. I just know it.”

The thought of Rachel marrying her brother did not bring Josephine pleasure. She was a good enough friend, but her frivolousness combined with Thomas’s impulsiveness? It would have been a marriage without a rudder.

If he had lived. Which he hadn’t.

Josephine felt sorrow rise from her toes to her heart. She must not let it reach its target, or she would never feel up to dinner. To quell its progress, she linked arms with Rachel. “Now tell me the latest gossip.”

Sometimes there were advantages to having a frivolous friend.

The two couples stood at the door to the Wilsons’ brownstone. Lewis fidgeted, pulling at his vest, fingering his tie.

“Are you nervous, Mr. Simmons?” Rachel asked.

“A little.”

“Nonsense, my man,” said Rachel’s husband, Clark. “You have already
been to the opera with Wilson’s brother, so you’re
in
. Relax and enjoy yourself. I plan to.”

Rachel patted his arm. “You never have trouble with that.”

Lewis looked down at Josephine. “Have I told you how ravishing you look?”

“Once or twice.” But she didn’t mind hearing it again.

Nervous or not, he lifted the doorknocker and let it drop. A butler let them in and took the men’s hats and gloves and the women’s shawls.

The parlor was ablaze with gaslights, a fire, and candles. A handsome middle-aged woman came to greet them, and she—Mrs. Wilson—led them to her husband. “Darling, the Maddoxes have arrived, along with a Mr. Simmons and . . . ?”

“Josephine Cain,” she supplied. Why hadn’t Lewis introduced her? And hadn’t Rachel told Mrs. Wilson they were coming? It was horribly awkward, as though they were simply a couple called in off the street.

“Cain?” Mr. Wilson said. “Might you be a relation to General Reginald Cain?”

She was thrilled to be able to say yes. “He is my father.”

“Ah yes. Now it is all falling into place. Robert and Edith so enjoyed their time at the opera with you. And as for your father, I know of no finer officer, and no finer man to take over the construction of the Transcontinental Railroad project.”

“The railroad?” said another man.

Mr. Wilson filled him in about Josephine’s father and his position.

The other two couples gathered close, and Robert Wilson asked how the railroad project progressed.

“Come in and have a seat, my dear,” Mrs. Wilson said. “Tell us all about your father’s special work out west.”

“Indeed,” Rachel said with a wink. “Tell us.”

Josephine was led to a sofa she shared with Mrs. Wilson. The others stood nearby, placing her in the center of their attention. Josephine noted the look on Lewis’s face. His jaw was tight and his brow furrowed.

But she couldn’t worry about that now. The company was full of questions, and she answered them the best she could. She was glad for
her father’s detailed letters.

After her discourse, Mr. Wilson looked at Lewis for the first time. “You must be very proud of Miss Cain and her family, Mr. Simon.”

Lewis’s face flashed just a moment before he said, “Simmons. And yes, sir, I am.”

But he didn’t look proud. He looked oddly afraid.

Josephine wished she could take lessons from Mrs. Wilson on gracious hospitality. The woman had a talent for making everyone feel involved and welcome. And the food: a mushroom soup, turbot, braised leg of mutton, new potatoes, Virginia brown bread, and upcoming, strawberry custard tartlets.

Josephine didn’t have another smidgen of space left in her stomach, but upon seeing the luscious dessert, she knew she would have to find some.

As they were being served, Rachel piped up. “I hear you spent the war in Europe, Mr. Simmons. Drawing?”

Lewis rearranged his napkin, then said, “I—I traveled to many countries sketching the points of interest.”

“Which was your favorite city?”

He hesitated a moment, then said, “Rome.”

“I adore Rome,” Rachel said.

Mr. Wilson nodded. “Did you visit the Pantheon? That’s a favorite of mine.”

“No, I did not travel to Greece,” Lewis said.

There was a moment of silence, and Josephine didn’t know whether to save him or let it pass.

Another guest did it for her. “The Pantheon is in Rome.”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

Josephine offered a little laugh. “Pantheon, Parthenon—they sound so similar, it
is
hard to keep them straight.”

“Where did you earn your artistic training?” Mrs. Wilson asked.

A pause. “The—the Louvre,” he said.

Again, a spat of silence. The Louvre was a museum. Was it also an art school?

Mrs. Wilson picked up her fork. “My, the strawberries are lush this year. Enjoy.”

Josephine had lost her appetite.

Lewis slammed the door of the carriage, plopped into the seat across from Josephine, making the entire carriage sway.

“He did not say one word about my drawings,” he said.

“Mr. Wilson?”

“Yes, of course Mr. Wilson. The reason I was happy to go to this dinner was to impress him so he’d buy more of my drawings for the newspaper.”

“But Mrs. Wilson showed interest. She asked you about your training.”

“Quizzed me. Interrogated me.”
Tripped me up
.

“They were showing interest. Is that not what you wanted, what anyone wants at such a soiree?”

Maybe. But what he really needed was some decent income as well as praise for his art. Courting a socialite was a drain on his meager wages from the butcher shop.

He gave his attention to the passing buildings.

Josephine leaned forward and touched his knee. “I am sure Mr. Wilson simply didn’t want to discuss business at a social gathering. He will likely contact you tomorrow.”

Lewis knew the odds of that were slim. Yet all he needed was a chance. What good did it do to have talent when he couldn’t make a living with it? And how could he keep Josephine’s interest when he was a nobody, with no prospects? She thought he had family money. If only . . .

Once they were married and his plan was fully implemented, he’d have plenty of money. Her money would be his. But until then, if she ever found out who he really was . . .

Frustration trumped his common sense, and he said, “You certainly were the belle of the evening, being the daughter of the great General Cain.”

“I did not seek attention.”

“But it found you nonetheless. Some people get all the luck, all the time.”

“There was no
luck
involved in my being asked to talk about Papa
and his work on the railroad. I received nothing from the attention, except perhaps pride in being his daughter.” She touched him again. “As I was proud to be your companion. Please, Lewis. Don’t be angry. I thought the night was very pleasant.”