Wild Embrace

“I grew tired of selling my body,” Maysie said, lowering her eyes. “But with no hopes of ever being able to do anything better with my life, I . . . I . . . decided to end it.”

Maysie looked up quickly, and met Elizabeth’s pitying eyes. “This sort of thing happens to many innocent girls and women of Seattle,” she softly explained. “Some have ended up in Copper Hill Prison for killing the men who led them into a life of prostitution. I could not bear ever to think of... of... being in a prison. Once there, one rarely ever leaves alive.”

“Well, you are one young lady who will never have to worry about that,” Elizabeth said, squaring her shoulders. “I will see to that.”

Elizabeth was glad when, through a break in the trees, she caught sight of the old mansion. She had never thought that she would be glad to see it.

But now was different. After hearing Maysie’s sad tale, Elizabeth knew just how lucky she was. Even though her mother had rejected her all those years ago, she at least had a father who kept her clothed and fed—and sometimes loved her.

Not everyone was this fortunate.

Her thoughts returned to the handsome brave, wondering what sort of life he led, and if there was someone who saw to his every wants and needs—a wife, perhaps?

The thought of a woman being a part of the Indian’s life made a keen jealousy stab at her heart.

Chapter 6

A day of days!

I let it come and go,

As traceless as a thaw of bygone snow.

—CHRISTINA ROSSETTI

The next day, her stomach warmed with oatmeal, Elizabeth took another slow sip of steaming tea, marveling over the brim of her cup at how Maysie still continued to eat. Maysie, her hair drawn back from her pale face with a blue satin ribbon, was scooping up big bites of egg, and stuffing her mouth with jellied biscuits as if she hadn’t eaten in days.

And last evening, when Elizabeth had offered Maysie a bath and perfumed soap, and then a fresh, clean dress with frilly laces at the throat and at the cuffs of the sleeves, Maysie had looked as if she thought she had entered Heaven.

At that moment, Elizabeth had almost understood why Maysie had stooped to selling her body for money. Just as Maysie had said, she had found it the only way to survive in a world that had forgotten she existed.

Elizabeth’s heart went out to Maysie, hoping that it was not too late for the young woman to begin a new life of decency.

F

rannie entered the dining room in a flurry, huffing and puffing, a scarf with bright designs wrapped around her head. She was carrying a huge bowl of fruit, which she set down on the middle of the table.

“Help yo’selves to the fruit,” Frannie said, stopping long enough to place her hands on her hips, to give Elizabeth an annoyed stare and then a slight nod toward Maysie.

Elizabeth smiled weakly up at Frannie, realizing that Frannie did not altogether approve of her having brought home a total stranger to stay with them. Elizabeth had tried to explain Maysie’s plight, but couldn’t tell Frannie that Maysie had been living the life of a prostitute. Elizabeth had just told Frannie that Maysie was homeless.

Elizabeth understood that it was not so much that she had brought home a stranger that Frannie was concerned about. It was Elizabeth’s father and his reaction to Elizabeth being so free in offering her charity.

“I done been to the market this mornin’,” Frannie said, untying the scarf from around her head and laying it across the back of a chair. “This city boasts of its fine apples. I can see why. They are plump and they smell delicious.”

“Thanks, Frannie, I believe I’ll have one,” Elizabeth said. She was glad when Frannie left after giving Maysie another troubled glance.

Maysie wiped her mouth clean with a monogrammed napkin, washed down the last bites of her food with a large glass of milk, then leaned back in her chair and sighed. “I haven’t eaten that good since I left San Francisco,” she murmured, lowering her eyes timidly. “My mama, when she had the makings, she baked the most delicious biscuits. But . . . but . . . we never could afford jams and jellies to eat on them. Nor could we afford butter.”

Then Maysie’s eyes looked up. “I can’t thank you enough for taking me in,” she said. “But what about your papa? When he comes back home, will he turn me out?” She glanced toward the door. “Your maid, she . . . she . . . doesn’t like me. Perhaps your father won’t either.”

Elizabeth took an apple from the bowl, then shoved the bowl toward Maysie, silently offering her one. “It’s not that Frannie doesn’t like you,” she tried to explain. “It’s just that I’ve never brought strangers home before. She’s finding that hard to accept. And don’t fret about my father. At first he may behave gruffly, but deep inside his heart he will understand and allow you to stay for as long as you wish.” She paused, then added, “He will, Maysie, because that is what I want, and he owes me, Maysie. He owes me.”

Elizabeth took a bite of her apple. Maysie only eyed those left in the bowl, her mind elsewhere. “I wish everyone could be as lucky as me,” Maysie said. “The poor women at Copper Hill Prison never had this sort of chance. I’m so, so lucky. I’m so grateful.”

She leaped from her chair and gave Elizabeth a hearty hug. “Thank you from the bottom of my heart,” she whispered. “Thank you, thank you.”

Elizabeth lay her apple aside and rose from her chair. She embraced Maysie, then placed an arm around her waist and walked her out of the dining room to the sitting room. Elizabeth chose a plump, overstuffed leather chair before the roaring fire in the fireplace and sat down. Maysie chose the divan.