The Typewriter Girl Read online

  The Journal of Benjamin Stark

  Chilkoot Pass: April 3, 1898

  We arrived at the foot of the mountain. The Gold Rush, for us, began here. Such a steep path stretched upward before us that we clung by the quick of our nails to our hopes for success. Our goal was more distant than ever imagined. Some, already discouraged, were offering up their supplies for quick sale to cut bait and run to the safety and comfort of home. We were not sufficiently faint of heart or in possession of wisdom to follow their example. This was the first of many choices that would lead to our later misfortune.

  Our courage and resolve firmly fixed, we commenced the great climb. A thin thread of persons, one closely behind the other, climbed step after step carved from snow and ice into the mountain. It took thirty trips or more to get two thousand pounds of supplies past the summit. We would surely have lightened our load had the Canadian government not ordered by law that each prospecting party come supplied with enough provisions to last for at least one year. They stationed Mounties there to enforce what was commonly known as the “ton of goods” law, for that was how much they decided we would need for a year. Too many had died of starvation, having naively assumed that they would find and purchase supplies on their way. We would later marvel at such ignorance after seeing the rugged trail that lay over the mountain. But for now, we were focused on the short goal of getting our goods and ourselves to the summit. Like everyone else, we collected our gear on the other side. It was marked with a pole, lest it be lost in a fresh fall of snow. Then we slid down the slope on an old piece of tin to the bottom to get the next load.

  There were dozens of us in that line. It stretched out day after day, never ending. We climbed up the steep slope of the so-called Golden Staircase with heavy packs, trying with each step to remember that it would someday end. We dared not stop or step out of line or we might wait for hours for a break in the line to continue on our way. So onward we trudged, knowing that we would succeed, if only because we gave ourselves no other choice. Doing so, we ignored dismal faces around us that foretold of failure waiting.

  April came in with a rare patch of warm weather, at least for two days. But the snow soon returned. On the second of April, a heavy snow fell. The natives warned that it would not be safe to go up past the sheep camp. Despite two small snow slides the previous day, none of us had any time for native superstitions. A few people had been caught, but were soon dug out from where they had been buried. It was much colder now and the snow was still falling, but like all the others, we were in a great hurry to go forth and stake our claims.

  In the morning, another snow fell. It was so fast and thick that by lunch it was futile to go any further. We could barely see one step ahead. A thunder of snow slides above convinced us at last that going forward would be too great a risk. About two hundred of us turned and started back down. We saw nothing but flying white specks coming at us. Bitter cold stung our eyes. We relied on the rope a construction crew lent us to make our way back. We could not see more than a few inches ahead. Were it not for the rope we would have veered off the path and either wandered or fallen. We clung to that rope. To let go was to die.

  With the wind came a terrible roar. I looked up. I could hear it, but saw nothing but white. Then I felt it. Massive snow tumbled and pounded us down. People shouted warnings to run, but snow slammed against me. The weight knocked me over, and then I was buried alive.

  Chapter 2

  Upstate New York: Autumn 1899

  Emma was typing away when, with a start, she noticed Stark leaning over her shoulder. She had not heard him enter the room, for the typewriter clattered too loudly. He loomed over her now with a presence that made her uneasy.

  With a sigh, she stopped abruptly and turned to face him. “What is it?”

  As though she were not there, his fixed stare never moved from the top sheet of the stack of pages she had typed. He finished it, and then proceeded to pick up the rest and continue to read. He was putting a page he had read on the bottom of the stack he was holding when he fumbled. The pages fluttered to the floor. Emma stopped typing and bent down to help. What she thought she had seen from a distance was plain now up close as they both reached for fallen pages. Thick scarring covered much of his right hand with a mottled and puckered magenta. The fingers twitched ineffectually, as though trying to do what the left hand did nimbly. His fingers functioned, but slowly, with marked effort and never as well. Holding onto an object required visible effort. Without looking at her, he seemed fully aware that she examined him. Emma lifted her eyes, but he would not meet her gaze. In return for her soft sympathy, he offered bitter, but silent, rebuff. The tight set of his jaw and the narrowing gloom of his eyes made it clear that she was meant to ignore it.

  He angrily scooped up the papers in his left fist and said, “I don’t like it.” He took them to his desk, where he put them in order with the aid of a flat surface.

  Emma’s heart was still pulsing hard from the moment just past. After some hesitation, she approached his desk to see for herself. “If there’s a mistake, I can—”

  “No,” he snarled, but then took the edge from his voice. “If there’s a mistake, then it’s mine.”

  She started to ask what exactly was wrong, but chose silence instead. She would wait and let him tell her when he was ready. When no explanation came, Emma turned to retreat to her desk. When he spoke, she pivoted back toward him and sat in the chair facing his desk. He seemed barely aware of her presence. Emma wondered if he might have been talking to himself.

  He said, “I don’t know why I let them talk me into this. It’s a journal—not Shakespeare.”

  “Of course not. Shakespeare wouldn’t have lasted a day in those tights.” She looked serious. “If the cold didn’t kill him, the prospectors would have.”

  She fought the urge to laugh—until he did. Her laughter was mixed with relief.

  Emma added, “Mushing a dogsled in tights is never recommended. Be sure to mention that in the section called ‘Parting Advice.’ ”

  Stark’s grin faded. “Which leads us back to my point. Shakespeare and I should both stick to what we do well.”

  “That would be easier. But then, avoiding risk always is.”

  “This wasn’t my idea. I was talked into it.”

  “How? Something must have made you want to do it. What was it?”

  He snapped, “You ask too many questions.” He paced, but saw her watching and shot a resentful look at her. “Maybe you should just type.”

  “Maybe you should just quit,” Emma retorted. She was not used to being spoken to in this way, and she wasn’t about to get used to it now. “If you don’t even know why you’re doing it, there’s really no point, is there?”

  He blurted out, “People want to know what it was like.”

  “Evidently it was dangerous,” she said with a false smile, which she instantly regretted as she watched him shove his hand into his pocket. “I didn’t mean—”

  Light glared in his eyes, so he went to window and pulled the curtains closed. “You’re right, Miss Madding. It was dangerous.” He was caustic. “On the bright side, I can be a shining beacon to deter wayward armchair adventurers from running aground.”

  How he put her on edge, but she had to admit she deserved it, at least in part. With a level look, she said quietly, “Is it possible—however remotely—that people might admire you and follow your lead?”

  He scoffed. “Well that would be their fatal error.” A sardonic smile spread across his face. “Why, Miss Madding! You’re not entertaining romantic ideas, are you?”

  Emma’s temper flared. She looked into his eyes with searing directness. “No.”

  Rather than fire back with another remark, he was instantly calm. She might almost have called him disappointed.

  Emma grew flustered. To distract him from this, she said, “It was just an opinion.”

  “Your opinion will change, I assure you.” He grew silent, and the silence grew
awkward. When he spoke again, he was quiet and measured. “I wonder if this work will be too much for your feminine sensibilities.”

  “My sensibilities are fine, as is my typing. As long as I’m typing out your scrawl, my opinion is beside the point.”

  “And yet you offer it.” Just before he turned from her, she caught sight of his scowl.

  Emma set her palms down flat on the typewriter table and said, “Because you asked.” She thought back. But had he?

  He tried to shrug it off as he walked to his desk, but before he could sit, he turned back and barked out, “Just say it. I can practically hear your judgmental conclusions.”

  “Then ignore them—like you do everything else that you don’t agree with.” Emma bristled. Never had she been spoken to like this—and so loudly, at that.

  “Just what is it about me that offends you, Miss Madding?”

  “Just what is it about you that makes you think that I could possibly have invested my energy—let alone interest—in thinking about you enough to possess any feeling, offense or otherwise?”

  Their eyes met with a fierceness that made Emma glance down to hide her sudden discomfort. What was the matter with her? She did not know herself. Of course, she had thought about him, but not nearly enough to approach understanding—or liking. How did he manage to cut through her well-practiced refinement and expose every ugly impulse she possessed?

  Stark, in the meanwhile, was nonplussed. “I don’t know. I forgot the question.” His mouth slanted up at the corner. “That was a rather long sentence.”

  Emma bit the smile from her lips.

  He exhaled as he tried to recall. “I was talking about my adventure—exploring, in general.” He studied her in a new light. “What were you talking about?”

  “The same.” Color rose to her cheeks. With feeble resolve but a strong voice, she said, “Adventures. Exploring.”

  And then the thought landed upon her like a near fatal blow. No, she had not just revealed with unwelcome blushes and feeble protestations any attraction, however slight or remote, the denying of which would take effort, and, in the end, backfire and prove it.

  He nodded. “Yes, that’s right. And it’s easy to see that you do not approve,” he said with an accusatory tone as he studied her face.

  She quietly exhaled in relief and regained most of her composure. He appeared to have missed that whole bit about feelings. She said, “No, it’s not that I don’t approve. It’s more a matter of not understanding.” Feeling confident, Emma looked up at him. Was he laughing? He folded his arms and leaned back in unabashed enjoyment. The way in which he observed her—as if she were some sort of a music hall entertainment—annoyed her.

  With renewed restraint, she said, “Mr. Stark, if you’ll forgive me, I really do not like to be laughed at or patronized.”

  “That’s a pity.” And with that, he grinned.

  Anger flared in her eyes, which only made his grin broaden.

  She paused to measure her words and her anger. How was it that she’d spent her life being unable to speak up when it truly mattered and yet, after a day with this man, she could barely contain herself? And he still had that arrogant look on his face. “You are unerringly rude and ungentlemanly!”

  He winced. He was mocking her.

  This unleashed Emma’s fury. “Very well, I’ll answer your question. What bothers me about you is your hubris. You think you can conquer the power of nature, and then come back and conquer the wallets of readers with your self-serving tales of brave feats. People died, but not you! You’ll turn a profit.”

  In an instant his composure was pierced. It was not a clean wound. The grief was raw and his self-loathing vivid.

  Emma saw it and cast her eyes downward. She did not need to look to know that he was no longer smiling. A frown formed on her brow. She could not face him, so she poised her hands over the typewriter. It was no use. She let her hands fall to her lap. There was no help for her. She braced herself for what would come next.

  When he spoke next, his voice was quiet, and chillingly so. “Let’s try something new. You do your job.” He took heavy, long strides to the door, but stopped there.

  She clomped to the window and yanked open the drapes as she muttered, “I would if I could see!” She returned to her desk, slid her chair forward, and looked for the place where she’d left off. She took heaving breaths.

  He watched with a tightening brow, but went on as though she had done nothing. “In fact, let’s just consider it part of your job not to voice your opinion.”

  She muttered to herself, “That way you can always be right.”

  Nostrils flared. “Good God! Does it ever stop?”

  “Mr. Stark, may I please be excused?” She got up and walked to the door, her fists clenched at her sides. He was blocking the way.

  His look bore through her. “You wield words like weapons.”

  Emma stiffened, but could not hold her tongue. “Oh, you’re safe from me! You have your ego to protect you.”

  It was almost a physical wound, the fresh agony plain on his face for an instant. His expression went blank. He looked slowly about at random.

  Emma took a step back and breathed slowly. “Mr. Stark.”

  He looked at her, barely able to bear the sight of yet one more person who despised him.

  She spoke evenly. “I just don’t understand manly endeavors.” Just leave it at that, she cautioned herself. But then she continued, “The parading around with the animals, the danger—what’s it all for? The gold? The challenge? The thrill?” Even as she said it, she knew she was wrong. She had heard no thrill in his voice.

  Static arced between them as they stood face to face. For what, indeed? She had asked the key question. The words swam about in his mind. He had asked himself that every day since, and he still had no answer. It haunted him. Why had he done it? Bile rose to his throat. Without knowing, she had found the heart of his pain and then twisted the blade, and it hurt.

  His next words were quiet and biting. “I should have hired a man.” He glanced away with a derisive shake of his head. His jaw tightened.

  With a guttural cry, she threw her arms up, exasperated.

  The movement caught his eye, and his body reacted. In a stunning instant, he caught both wrists, but his right hand could not tighten to grip hers. Realizing this, her muscles relaxed, and she lowered her arms to her sides. He thought he saw pity in her eyes, and it struck a blunt blow. His wounded expression made Emma’s victory feel poorly won. Even worse, she feared she might have misjudged him. She saw no trace of arrogance now, only pain. It was in those large eyes. He stepped aside, clearing a path through the door. He would not look at her now.

  Neither seemed able to move. Words were poised for a long while before Stark spoke again. “Miss Madding, I should never have touched you. I thought you were going to hit me. It was a reflex. Even so, it was ungentlemanly. Please accept my apology.”

  Even now, she half expected to see some sign of sarcasm, but there was none. Still, he would not look at her, and she found that she wanted him to. With a nod, Emma walked through the doorway, but paused with her hand on the frame. She turned and quietly confessed, “I wanted to hit you.” Had he looked, he would have seen her eyes glint. Emma touched his arm. It was light and brief, and was meant as a gesture of kindness at first. But once done, it felt like far more. She walked quickly away.

  Benjamin Stark stared after she’d gone from his sight, and he still felt her touch.

  The next morning began with a tacit accord to stay out of the other one’s way. Benjamin entered the study to find Emma sipping coffee and reading his journal. Morning light cast the room with a gentle glow that seemed to center on Emma. He caught himself watching her. She was sitting in the best light to read, that was all. A new stillness hung in the air, but neither would speak of it. They launched into work. Benjamin began to dictate a few extra lines to insert in the journal.

  “People die for good causes�
�for their country, their family, or to make the world better. We were impulsive young men out to test our manhood against the elements. But people died, and to die just for gold—or to be the first, or the fastest, or the richest—is a waste. We were arrogant then, but we soon would be humbled.”

  He stopped and met her eyes with honest warmth.

  And that gaze disarmed her. It lingered and drew her to him. Yes, he had her forgiveness, and if she were not careful, he’d have her heart, too.

  The Journal of Benjamin Stark

  Chilkoot Pass: April 3, 1898

  With the wind came a terrible roar. I looked up. I could hear it, but saw nothing but white. Massive snow tumbled and pounded us down. People shouted to run, but snow slammed against me. The weight knocked me over, and then I was buried alive.

  Then it stopped. It was still. The silence of death weighed me down. I could not lift myself out. I tried to move. The only part of my body that seemed able to move was my hand. I felt snow. It was loose. Was my hand near the surface? I moved my fingers. I tried to call out, but I could not inhale. Damn it, I was not going to die. I cursed and fought against the weight pressing me down. My hand moved, so I focused on that, trying to dig snow to free it and work my way down. I cleared snow down to my wrist, but my arm and the rest of my body were still packed in snow. I know now, and I think I knew then, it was hopeless. I knew, too, that if I was going to die, I’d die fighting like Hell not to. If death won, I would not make it easy.

  Daniel dug himself out from the inside. He was close to the surface. We all had our shovels, but they were all buried with us when the avalanche came. Daniel frantically dug at the snow all around him with his hands. He called out my name.

  “Damn it, Ben! Don’t leave me here! Son of a bitch! If you do, I’ll never forgive you.”

  We had been on the outskirts of the snow slide, the first of a strange stream of good luck that followed us most of the way. My glove had come loose and lay on top of the snow. He found it and saw my hand moving just under the surface.