The Typewriter Girl Read online

  As I ran out of air, I felt myself lifting up out of my body. So this was death.

  “Damn it all! Damn it to Hell!”

  There was cursing in death?

  A hand grabbed mine and I tried to hold on, but it slipped away from my grasp. Moments later, I felt snow being scooped and brushed away, and I gulped in a breath with a desperate gasp. With bare hands and sheer will, Daniel had dug me out and pulled me free from the snow. Greedily, I breathed in the cold air.

  “What’s all the damn cursing?” I rasped as my breathing steadied. I was so happy to see him I managed a smile. “Would you shut the hell up?”

  “No, damn it!” He swatted my shoulder, then grabbed me and clutched me against him.

  “God damn you, Ben! Don’t you do that to me!”

  Now, Dan was a big guy who didn’t always know his own strength. He was clutching so hard I couldn’t breathe. I was frozen and weak.

  “Hey, Dan, buddy? Let go, okay?”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  He let go and helped me rub feeling back into my arms and my legs. I looked at him and laughed.

  “You okay?” he asked, as I held my hands and examined them as if they were foreign objects.

  I nodded and said, “Hey, you curse pretty good for a preacher’s kid.”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  Dan was a man of few words. He was built like an ox, but he was as mild and gentle a man as you’d ever meet. So the slew of profanity that had come out of him was more than he’d said the whole trip—and more four-letter words than he’d said in a lifetime. I started to laugh all over again. I’d come too close to death and come back, and I was euphoric. But I soon caught sight of the grim scene around me. I was stiff and too damn sore for words, but I could move, and I had to do something. We helped panicked people dig out their friends and their loved ones. Others wandered in shock. We toiled for hours. The pace slowed as the chance of survival grew dim.

  It was not the last time I would cheat death on that journey. Nor was it the last tragic event I would view. But it was extraordinary proof of the spirit of man. Hundreds abandoned their camps and possessions and joined in the search for those buried in the avalanche. The great gift of life and of wonder beyond clung to us and bound us together. Here we were, all on a quest for our own selfish hunger for wealth, and yet in an instant everyone stopped and thought only of others. For the next four days, one purpose drove us. We dug for survivors. No one traveled the trail during those days except to help in the rescue. In the end, accounts varied. I know that I saw at least two dozen people pulled out safely. But sadly, more than double that number were lost.

  Upstate New York: Winter 1899

  Benjamin left Emma typing and took Shadow for a walk. They’d just finished a good run down by the lakeshore and climbed to the top of the path, when he saw Mrs. Dowling waving for him. Two men were waiting in the study, she told him.

  “No, they wouldn’t tell me why they were here. It was much too important to share with the likes of me.” She was not one to be shy with her feelings. Benjamin handed her his overcoat and went into the study, with Shadow close at his heels.

  It was quiet. Emma’s percussive typing was absent. Two men stood up as Benjamin entered the study. A middle-aged man reached out his hand, but Benjamin pretended not to notice. His guest started to take offense at the slight, but caught sight of Benjamin’s hand. It did not invite touching.

  Benjamin had lived with the stares and some gasps. He had quickly wearied of awkward explanations, and so he abandoned the handshaking ritual altogether. A paper on the floor gave him an excuse to deflect the attention from his hand. He picked up the typewritten page and looked about for Emma. No doubt she had gone when the men had arrived so they could meet undisturbed. He set down the paper.

  They introduced themselves as Henry Farlowe and the Earl of Clayworth. Mr. Farlowe was a man in his fifties of stout build, while his companion was young, tall and lean. Both wore suits finely made, and exuded the comfort of wealth and social standing.

  Shadow barked and went to the window seat, where he poked his nose between the drawn curtains. Benjamin glanced dismissively, but it struck him as odd. He glanced back. When he’d gone for his walk, Emma was typing. He remembered her head tilted down as she’d studied his journal, and the light on her hair where it swept from the base of her neck to the simple bun. The light on her hair. She had vented her anger on the curtains for that very light.

  Now the curtains were closed. While Mrs. Dowling brought in a tray of coffee, Benjamin went to Shadow and ordered him to sit. Then he gave the draperies a tug, but they seemed to be caught. As he ran his hand down the length of the edge, he seized hold of a slender hand. Through the small gap that had formed, he spied Emma clutching the curtains and staring at him. She had the look of an animal cornered, resisting its doom. Her eyes silently pleaded. He stared at her, burning with questions she could not answer right now. Aware that the men had turned toward him, he let go of the curtains and reached down to lead Shadow out of the room. Closing the door behind him, he made excuses for Shadow’s disruption.

  When he rejoined his visitors, they talked of the weather and the roads on their journey, but soon got down to business. Mr. Farlowe began. “We’re looking for a young woman. She disappeared several weeks ago.”

  Benjamin forced himself to appear only mildly curious. “Is she in trouble? Are you police detectives?”

  “Her name’s Emmaline Farlowe. She’s my daughter. Lord Clayworth here is her fiancé.”

  Benjamin had listened politely, and responded with appropriate interest, but the last word nearly made him choke on his coffee. Fiancé? Emmaline Farlowe. Emma Madding.

  “We feared she’d been kidnapped, but then our detectives—we’ve hired the best—discovered a typewriting class that she may have attended.”

  Lord Clayworth winced. Having his future wife in the midst of common laborers did not sit well. Mr. Farlowe deliberately glanced at the typewriter, and back again at Benjamin.

  “I’m getting ahead of myself. The last time we saw her, we were entertaining at our cottage in Newport. No one seems to have seen her leaving, but our detectives determined that she boarded a train to Boston, and then changed to one bound for Buffalo.”

  “Your detectives are thorough. Train stations are busy places. To find people who would remember a passenger so many days later cannot be an easy task.”

  Lord Clayworth spoke up for the first time. “Miss Farlowe’s beauty is not easily forgotten.”

  Benjamin flashed a sharp glance toward Lord Clayworth, but caught himself before he revealed too much.

  Mr. Farlowe pulled a sepia photograph from his pocket and offered it to Benjamin. It was Emma transformed. In an elegant gown and a single strand of pearls about her neck, she was exquisite. Her expression, serene. Her shoulders, creamy and bare. His breath caught in his throat. Yes, she would be noticed and remembered, no matter the crowd.

  “As I said, she was traced to a typewriting class in Buffalo.”

  Lord Clayworth’s upper lip twitched with disdain.

  Mr. Farlowe continued. “The woman who taught the class was certain that this was the same girl she sent here to you—so much so that we came here ourselves.” The hope in his eyes sent a pang of guilt through Benjamin.

  Clayworth observed keenly as the father asked, “Have you seen her?”

  With eyes fixed on the photograph, Benjamin answered him. “Yes.”

  Chapter 3

  Emma stifled a gasp. He had betrayed her. She had nowhere to go but the window. She was on the first floor. If she carefully slid the lock open, she might be able to get out of the window. And go where? Outwalk two men in a carriage? Or hitch Benjamin’s carriage and ride off? She could see the posters. Wanted: Emmaline Farlowe, The Horse Thieving Heiress. Emma’s heart sank. She would have to give up and accept her inevitable marriage. She touched her fingertips to the velveteen drapes. No, she would not go yet. She would sit here and
hold onto her last minutes of freedom. Hugging her knees to her chest, Emma waited.

  Mr. Farlowe let out a ragged sigh. “Where is she?”

  Lord Clayworth looked almost triumphant.

  Benjamin said, “I hired her.”

  Mr. Farlowe leaned forward impatiently. But Lord Clayworth’s face revealed relief, yes, but stemming from hurt pride, not love. As Benjamin looked at the man and imagined Lord and Lady Clayworth in a portrait beside the fire, his hand regally poised on his wife’s shoulder, that wife was not Emma. It could not be. He imagined her dinner table and the pleasant conversation, during which she would lambaste some poor unsuspecting Earl with an opposing opinion, and he smiled to himself.

  He looked at Mr. Farlowe and said, “I dismissed her.”

  Mr. Farlowe’s posture sagged. “You dismissed her?”

  Benjamin nodded. “I had to. She was unsuitable. She’s a bit headstrong, which is an asset for some situations, but not this one.”

  “Headstrong?” asked her father. The two guests exchanged baffled glances.

  “And opinionated. It got in the way of the work.”

  From the window seat, Emma glared through the folds of the velveteen curtains.

  A puzzled Henry Farlowe said, “We can’t be talking about the same girl.”

  “No,” agreed Clayworth. “Our Miss Farlowe is demure, and impeccably mannered.”

  “The picture of ladylike poise,” added her father.

  Moments of silence followed, during which all three men were poised to proceed, but could not.

  “Where did she go?” asked Mr. Farlowe, looking helplessly sad.

  Benjamin shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  Mr. Farlowe’s frustration flared. “You just turned her out, without knowing if she would be safe?”

  “How do you dismiss your servants, Sir?”

  “Servant!” Lord Clayworth scoffed.

  Benjamin flashed a look at Clayworth, then quietly said to the father, “I dropped her off at the train station. What she did after that, I don’t know.”

  Mr. Farlowe had no response, other than a look of deep disappointment.

  Benjamin watched Shadow chase the carriage down the length of the driveway until it turned to drive out of sight. He had told a significant lie. Two men who dearly loved Emma were stricken with grief, which he had now made worse. It felt wrong, and yet he could not seem to work up any guilt over thwarting Clayworth’s marriage intentions. Still, he had lied, and his lie had caused people pain. For that, he was not proud. Most of all, he resented having been forced to it.

  He returned to the study and pressed the door tightly closed. The draperies were open, and Emma sat poised, waiting for him.

  He looked at her sitting there, having gotten her way.

  “You lied to me, Emma.”

  “I did not.” He heard a familiar edge to her tone. He’d hardly met her, and already he was reading her moods.

  “You’re not a simple typewriter girl.”

  “I never said I was simple.”

  “You’re an heiress engaged to an Earl.”

  “I never said that I wasn’t.”

  “And you’re filthy rich.”

  “Don’t forget headstrong and opinionated,” she added.

  “Oh, believe me, I haven’t.” He glared in silence for a moment. “I just lied. I don’t lie, but I just lied for you.”

  Her face softened. “Thank you.”

  He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath before looking at her. “Thank you?”

  She slowly blinked, and then stared at the floor. She was in no mood to argue, nor did she have secure footing.

  Her silence seemed to anger him more. “You put me in a damned awkward position. I think you owe me a little bit more than just thank you.” He grabbed hold of her hand and led her to a chair. “Sit.”

  She sat. “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re sorry. And thankful. Well that makes it all worth the trouble.”

  Her brow furrowed.

  “This is not a refuge for runaway brides.”

  She kept her eyes fixed on her hands and spoke softly. “I’ll leave in the morning.” As she stood, she looked at him with round, watery eyes, and rushed out of the room.

  He had not expected tears. He knew how to reprove and to argue the point. She was wrong to have put him in such a position. But he did not know what to do with tears. It was a hell of an unfair thing she had done. The least she could have done was to let him get this off his chest.

  He paced the room. How convenient to run and leave others to pick up the pieces. He was angry, and she hadn’t let him finish telling her so. No, she had cried. Now he felt sorry—and she was the one who had wronged him. With her round, pleading, golden brown watery eyes, she had forced him. Leave in the morning? We’ll see about that. But what if she did? Why not let her? His life would fall back into order. “So leave,” he muttered to himself. He felt good for about thirty seconds. And go where?

  He walked toward the door to the hallway. She can go. It’s not my job to watch out for her. He turned back. Her fiancé could have her. Except that he couldn’t, because Benjamin had made sure of that. Nor could her father come get her and take her back home. She was under his roof, and thus his responsibility. He glanced at the ceiling, toward Emma’s room. I should’ve let him have you! You deserve him—and a litter of Little Lord Clayfeet! But he stopped pacing, and sobered at the thought of her having children. With that man? His eyes darted about, then he turned to find himself face to face with the mounted bear head.

  “What are you looking at?” And he punched it.

  Emma opened the door to her bedroom. Even in the dim lamplight, he could see her eyes reddened from crying. Patches of pink blotched her creamy skin. Her hair hung in loose strands from the usually tidy bun at the nape of her neck. Random tresses fell in loose disarray on her shoulders. He wanted to touch her right now, draw his fingers through her silk strands of hair, and let them drop to her shoulders. He would trace every place where the tips of her hair met her skin. The impulse was strong. So was he. So his fingers combed through his own coarse, tousled waves as his eyes darted about and he sought the right words.

  “Where will you go?”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “I wondered. That’s all.” But it wasn’t all. “Look, if you need a few days...”

  “No,” she said softly.

  His eyes would not rest on her for more than a moment. Their emotions were spent. They were quiet and awkward together.

  “I’m sorry I forced you to lie. It was too much to ask.” She turned away and closed the suitcase on her bed.

  “Here, let me.” Before she could lift the suitcase, he reached out to take it. His hand closed over hers, and he wanted to hold it. The bag was not heavy. She didn’t need him to lift it for her, but it was the right thing to do. Any man would have done as much. Any man would have noticed her skin felt like satin. He set the bag down and walked to the door. He stopped for a moment, his hand on the doorknob. It was time to say something. Goodbye.

  He turned and looked straight at her with his dark blue eyes. “You’re not really headstrong and opinionated.” A grin crept into his face. “Not too much, anyway.”

  “And you’re not really brutally indifferent.”

  “You never said that about me.”

  “No, but I thought it.” She smiled.

  He turned and put his hand on the doorknob. Again. It was time to say something. Goodbye.

  “Don’t leave.” He turned around to face her. Their eyes met.

  He let his guard drop, and passion melted his gaze. “Don’t go.”

  “Why?” It was not a coy question. For someone so passionate about her opinions, Emma was terrified to embrace her own feelings.

  “You ask too many questions.” His mouth twitched, but the smile was soon gone.

  He took her hand in his left hand and stared as his thumb stroked the back of her hand. “Just do
n’t go.”

  Abruptly, he turned and reached for the door. He’d revealed too much. He had to get out of this small room. He pulled open the door and was nearly through it.

  She reached out and took hold of his right hand—the one people stared at. He flinched but her other hand held his arm. With sickening dread, he found himself frozen, unable to stop her from holding his hand just as he had held hers only moments before. Did she mock him? He studied her face. Was it pity he saw there? She touched it. The scarred skin had no feeling, but the sight the gesture made his throat tighten. His brow creased as he tamped down the feelings she stirred. She lifted her eyes to meet his, but he looked away and worked hard to control his emotions. He had not meant to feel this way.

  Moments passed without talking, and she gently let go. As their hands slipped apart, he began to turn. He intended to leave. But he turned back and gave into his impulse to pull her against him and hold her. She trembled in his arms. He pulled back, knowing he must have hurt or upset her.

  “I couldn’t marry him,” she said softly.

  She hid her face in his shoulder and tightened her arms about him. He cradled her head in his hand. Her lithe body pressed against his and she wept, and he held her and knew he would not let her go.

  Klondike Region: May 1898

  We followed the Chilkoot Trail to Lake Bennett, where we waited for the spring thaw. We stayed busy finding logs to whipsaw into planks for a boat. Lake Bennett poured into the Yukon River. We needed a solid boat that would hold all of our gear and carry us on our three-week journey down the river to Dawson.

  Daniel and I were confident in water. We knew how to canoe through the rapids near home. We might as well have practiced in bathtubs, for all it did to prepare us. The Yukon was a wild ride. Boats and outfits were lost all along the way. We passed people spreading their gear out to dry on the banks. Those were the lucky ones. They still had their gear.

  We had just gotten through a wild stretch of rapids, and our guts and muscles had had a good workout. I heard a man shouting. I thought he was in trouble, but I soon saw that he himself was the trouble. He was yelling and cursing at the woman who could only have been his wife. No one else would have put up with his hot air. Instead of all of that caterwauling, he should have been steering his boat down the river. We had to steer away to avoid running into them. He was too busy hollering to notice us. His meek wife quietly continued to straighten a bundle as though he were not there. If she spoke at all, I didn’t hear her. The rush of the water was too loud—but not too loud to hear him. He stood up and reached out to take a swing at her with his fist, but he capsized the boat. He was flailing around, crying out for help. He could swim, but his gear would be ruined and lost. He was grabbing barrels, crates, and loose bundles.