The only thing of value I take with me out west is in my head. I pack a trunk with clothes and books and a bit of money, and I pay Maggie with love and some of the cash I’ve hidden to ship the trunk out to Cheyenne, and then to the general store of the little town where I’ve procured a position. Maggie is reluctant to help me. She calls Richard my “dashing gentleman” in her soft Irish accent, and she feels our quick engagement is romantic, and I cannot find the words to tell her it was anything but. Her nose has always been in the gothics, ever since I taught her to read, and she hasn’t plucked the stars from her eyes ever since Richard smiled at her when she served him at dinner.
Regardless, she sneaks the trunk out for me the day before I leave, so as I adjust my hat and take a deep breath, the only thing I walk out the door with is my reticule, filled with innocuous things, and my brain, with the education I hope will save me clattering around.
Knowledge is my only real value. My papa ensured that I was taught well. Education was what helped his great-great-grandfather rise to the top of society so many years ago; education meant that the family hasn’t failed in the harsh years since. The things that separate us from the grime-covered workers in the factories are education and knowing that education makes us better. My papa never intended me to take over the family accounts after his death, but he also hadn’t intended me to be a simpering wife with no thoughts of my own, despite his attitude about Richard. And while my papa is wrong about many things, he was right about the fact that when I have nothing else, I have my education.
But I also have my memories.
And my regrets.
I clutch the ticket in my hand at the station. The thin paper seems flimsy and weak, nothing at all what freedom should feel like. This ticket, it says underneath the emblazoned UNION PACIFIC logo, entitles the holder to one second-class passage from CHICAGO to station canceled. A little mark by CHEYENNE is the only assurance I have that I’m actually going somewhere . . . away.
The train pulls into the station, all billowing steam, and activity swirls around me.
And that is it. Just a piece of paper and a train and a promise of a job in the West, and a new life is within my grasp.
I step into the train with trepidation, my hand clutching the porter’s as he helps me up. Wooden benches line the train car, but it’s thankfully not as crowded as it might have been. A family of eight takes up two benches in the front; a group of men sits in the middle. An old man in a worn but neatly pressed suit sits primly near the back, and there are several empty benches before him.
“May I?” I ask, indicating the seat by the old man. He nods genially. Best to sit with someone who looks safe than to sit by myself and run the risk of someone less safe down the line.
“By yourself?” the old man asks.
He’s just making conversation, I think. I smile despite the lump rising in my throat and say, “Meeting someone soon.”
My eyes go to the window, half-expecting someone — my father, Richard, Maggie — to be raising a fuss, trying to stop me.
But I’m alone.
I don’t breathe again until the train chugs to life, pulling me farther and farther away from this life I no longer want.
The rhythm of the train lulls me to sleep, and in my dreams, I’m wearing the glittering gown I wore that night to the opera, almost as sparkling as the bubbles of the champagne I drank with abandon. The world was my oyster.
And in my dream, Richard is like he was before. Dashingly handsome, with a smile that could melt the knees right out from under you. The perfect gentleman. When I leaned in to whisper conspiratorially about the opera to him, I felt . . . exhilarated. He had an edge to his shine, but he felt safe too. Someone I could confide in, someone who would smile when I touched his elbow or tapped him with my fan.
And then I woke up.
The train is hot and stuffy and unbearable. It’s already well into autumn, but despite the cooler temperatures outside, my dress sticks to my skin, and my hair clings to the back of my neck.
The coach that picks me up in Cheyenne is miserably cold but equally stuffy. The man sharing the coach with me makes a point of telling me that Cheyenne just got its first public schoolhouse last year. We don’t pass the building, but I suspect it is far nicer than anything I’m heading to.
But this life will be better than what I’m leaving behind. The farther we go, the farther I am from Richard. I promise myself that the school will be a haven, an ivory tower I can live in with books and students and no Richard.
It’s a hovel.
Well, more accurately, it’s a small house attached by one wall to the local Episcopalian church. Mr. William M. Jeffers greets me at the coach stop, and we walk together the half mile to the church at the end of the main street. The church is long and narrow, made of logs; the shack attached to it is made of planks, with cracks big enough to show daylight through.
I step inside the “schoolhouse” tentatively. There are a few split-pole benches, a rough table that’s clearly meant to be my desk, and a writing board hung on pegs on a wall. The only heat comes from the stove at the back of the room — or it would, if it were lit.
“You’re awful young to be out here alone,” Mr. Jeffers says as I stand in the center of the one-room schoolhouse, turning slowly to inspect everything.