Klondike Dreams

KLONDIKE DREAMS

BY

Tatiana March

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Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 by Tatiana March

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced without the permission of the author except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews.

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner to create a sense of authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Epilogue

About this Book

Chapter One

What are you left with when you give up your dreams?

Cora Goodrich shivered with cold. Or perhaps it wasn’t the lack of heat that made her numb, but the tasks that lay ahead. They filled her with dread.

Gathering the wool overcoat around her sturdy frame, Cora turned away from the cheval mirror in the corner of her dressing room. In the fireplace, morning flames had died to ashes long ago. Molly had instructions not waste coals, unless the temperature outside sank low enough for the puddle by the front steps to ice up.

Everyone had to economize these days, even William Goodrich, the wealthiest furniture merchant in New York. The panic of 1893 was over, but the depression lingered. Unlike other qualities her father expected of her, Cora didn’t find it difficult to excel in financial prudence.

Fortified by the armor of a whalebone corset beneath her formal gown, she clattered down the stairs, listening to her footsteps echo the word that pounded inside her head. Spins-ter, spins-ter. Her hand tightened over the balustrade. Old news, she whispered, and hurried through the hall before her courage failed.

The front door was sticking again, at the bottom where the timber had warped from the long gone summer heat. Cora gave the panel a hefty shove, accompanied with a kick from her booted foot. When the door flew open, she sailed through, into the freezing January monochrome of slushy snow, denuded trees, and tall stone facades stained by decades of coal smoke.

She almost stumbled over a powerfully built man crouching on all fours at the top of the outside steps. To keep her balance, Cora had to prop her hands against his broad back. The physical contact was wholly inappropriate, but at least she was wearing gloves, and the man was bundled into a thick leather coat.

Straightening, Cora snatched her hands away. What are you doing here?

The man made no effort to rise. He merely turned his head and fixed a pair of unflinching pale eyes at her. Not a flicker of expression animated his face, nor did he utter a single word. It made her breath catch, the way he looked like a marble statue, handsome but without emotion.

Do you speak English? Cora asked when she found her voice.

"Jaa," the stranger replied with a slow nod.

She frowned at his use of one language to claim a skill in another. Who are you?

I’m the stonemason. He reached for a battered steel bucket in front of him. With a small trowel, he lifted out a dollop of some gray paste and smothered it over a crack that ran along the edge of the stairs.

Cora craned her neck to watch. What are you doing?

He spoke in an unhurried drawl. I’m fixing the broken stonework. That should be obvious, even to a fine lady like you, not familiar with hard work.

You don’t know anything about me, Cora said sharply.

"Nay, the man replied. But I know the fine clothes that barely allow you to move or breathe, and the kind of skills you spend your life learning—embroidery and music, poetry and social graces."

Her eyes narrowed. And how would you know about those?

The man turned to face her. A gust of wind stirred the flaxen hair across his brow. I know, because my Ma used to be just like you, until she married my Pa, and he taught her better.

Aghast at the insolent comment, Cora took a step back and collided with a resounding thud against the door. Her chest rose and fell as she gasped for breath. The tightly laced corset restricted her lungs, making her feel faint.

The man rose to his knees and clamped a supporting hand over her arm. Steady now, he told her. The stairs are icy because I’ve scrubbed them clean with water. You don’t want to go falling down.

His gloveless hand was chafed raw, and blue from the cold. Cora shuttled her gaze back to his face. The man wore no hat. Straight blond hair fell in a tousled sweep around a stern face with wide cheekbones and pale gray eyes. Even on his knees, the stranger appeared to tower over her.

Thank you, she muttered, edging forward.

His only response was a curt nod. He kept his fingers curled over her sleeve, supporting her, until she had circled past him and could cling to the iron handrail atop the stone balustrade.

You should be wearing a hat and gloves. She glanced back over her shoulder, not quite daring to focus on him. The cold can be dangerous to the health.

The stonemason made an amused sound. Don’t you worry, Miss. I’ll be fine. I know all about cold weather. Paying her no further attention, he resumed his work.

Unease coursed through Cora as she hurried down the street toward Washington Square. Miss, she thought. Today might be the last time a stranger called her Miss, instead of Ma’am, a label that carried with it an implication of encroaching years.

****

Sitting in an overstuffed armchair beside a small table, Cora waited in the shady parlor of Dr Thomas Cornhill. She could feel the anxious beating of her heart, and fleetingly considered the medical experiment of measuring her pulse before and after the difficult scene. Then the door creaked, and she bolted to her feet.

Dr Cornhill stepped in. The brown suit hung on his gangly frame, and his sparse hair had been hastily combed. One of his hands clutched a white handkerchief in a gesture that betrayed nerves. The acrid smells of carbolic acid and ammonia drifted into the room ahead of him.

Cora spoke first. I hope I’m not interrupting your surgery.

Dr Cornhill shoved the handkerchief into his breast pocket. The morning surgery is over. Please, sit down. He motioned at the thickly padded chair she’d sprung up from, and settled into an identical one opposite. The window cast a bleak light between them.

Cora swallowed and launched into her rehearsed speech. The use of his first name was unfamiliar, adding to her tension. I’m sorry, Thomas, but the answer has to be no. I am honored by your offer, but I cannot marry you.

His thin brows lifted. May I inquire why?

Cora sat rigid in the springy chair. I respect and admire you, but I don’t believe those feelings are an adequate basis for a lifelong union between a man and a woman.

A horse drawn carriage clattered by outside, filling the long pause.

You think there should be more? Dr Cornhill said finally.

Yes. Cora lowered her gaze. I believe there should be more.

At twenty-eight, perhaps you might consider the necessity of a compromise?

Cora shook her head and remained silent.

Dr Cornhill rose to his feet. With a few precise steps, he positioned himself by her chair and placed a hand upon her shoulder. Many a happy marriage has been founded on nothing more than mutual respect and companionship. If you can offer me those, it will be enough.

Cora looked up and met his eyes. But for me, it won’t.

The expression on Dr Cornhill’s narrow face cooled to match the chill outside. He withdrew his hand from her shoulder. In a terse voice, he wished her well. And, just as Cora had expected, he made no invitation for her to continue her unpaid work as a student nurse in his medical practice.

****

Cora hurried up Fifth Avenue, weaving through the crowds. There were always too many people on the streets of Manhattan these days. The population of New York had grown to over three million, if you counted the outer boroughs of Staten Island, Brooklyn and Queens, which would shortly be incorporated into the city.

Mercifully, she’d conquered the first step of settling her future. She was fully aware that everyone would think she had taken leave of her senses. She had rejected a kind man with a good standing in the community, a man who encouraged her interest in medicine and offered her a secure future. By turning down the proposal, she was rebelling against her father’s wishes, as well as exposing herself to an uncertain fate in a world where spinsters were objects of pity and ridicule.

But she couldn’t help it.

When her mother had died soon after Cora’s sixth birthday, her father had withdrawn into himself. Over the years, he had shown little warmth toward his only child, leaving Cora starved for affection. To love and be loved. She clung to the hope, unwilling to accept a convenient marriage to a man who aroused no tenderness in her heart.

The cold wind blew in sharp gusts that tangled the layers of Cora’s petticoats around her feet, restricting her speed. It took her almost an hour to reach the southern edge of Central Park. By then, the melting snow had soaked through her boots, making her pinched toes swell until they felt like a cluster of overripe grapes about to burst.

She came to a stop outside a tall townhouse on 51st Street. A brass plate on the wall identified the premises as the medical practice of Dr Belle M. Brown. Cora pounded on the iron knocker. A slim young woman dressed in the blue and white striped uniform of the Bellevue Hospital Training School for Nurses let her in, a manila folder clutched in one hand.

Good afternoon, Nurse Carter, Cora said. Is Dr Brown busy?

The pretty nurse pushed a stray wisp of dark hair back into place beneath her starched white cap. She has one more patient to see. Turning around, she led the way into a cluttered office, where she filed away the folder. I was just preparing to leave. It’s a long walk back to the Nurse Home.

The distance to the Bellevue on 26th Street measured twenty-five city blocks. Cora considered her own plans for the next few hours and wondered what Nurse Carter would say. Think her mad, no doubt, and come up with a suitable medical diagnosis to support her view.

Cora took off her coat and hung it on a hook by the door. You can go now, if you wish. I plan to stay until Dr Brown is finished. If she needs a nurse, I can assist her.

Nurse Carter glanced at the casement clock ticking on the wall. Very well, she said. I know Dr Brown regards you as good as any Graduate Nurse.

Despite her anxiety, Cora beamed with pride at the remark. Feeling benevolent toward the younger girl, she flapped her hands in a friendly, shooing gesture. Hurry along, then.

After the Bellevue nurse was gone, Cora selected a worn copy of the New England Medical Journal from the big oak desk and settled down to wait. As she leafed through the pages, a question drifted across her mind—what would it be like, to be Anita Carter? Cora didn’t know much about the young woman, but one thing she knew for certain.

It had to be better than being Cora Goodrich.

****

Twenty minutes later the door to the consulting room opened and Dr Brown walked through. Matronly, in her fifties, with graying hair scraped into a severe knot, she wore a plain black gown that rustled with the force of her strides. The stern features and decisive manner inspired awe, but during their short friendship Cora had learned to disregard the formal exterior and rely upon the kindness beneath.

Miss Goodrich. Dr Brown lifted her brows. I’m surprised to find you here so late in the day.

Cora sprang to her feet. She tried to take a deep breath, but the corset constricted her lungs. Her discomfort caught the attention of the older woman. Why are you wearing that contraption? Dr Brown demanded. I thought you had switched to reform dress.

I needed to make a social call, Cora hurried to explain. I had to wear a formal gown. She paused, misery welling up inside her. I’ve put on weight and I couldn’t fasten the bodice with only a reform corset on.

Dr Brown gave a curt nod and settled behind the desk. I expect you came here with the purpose of talking to me about something. What’s on your mind?

Cora twisted her hands. Dr Brown kept the waiting room warm, in case patients were suffering from chills, and the heat spread through to the office. The wet boots were hurting her toes as the leather dried out. She would have liked to undo the buttons on the front, but it was impossible to bend down and reach her feet while wearing a tightly laced corset.

I shan’t be able to take up my place at the Medical College in the fall, she blurted out, her voice so brittle she hardly recognized it as her own.

Silence fell while Dr Brown absorbed the news. You’ve worked hard to gain admittance, the older woman said finally. Why would you want to throw it all away? Her expression hardened. Is it your father? Has he changed his mind about allowing you to go?

Father’s approval was always conditional.

Conditional upon what?

Cora sacrificed her privacy to provide an explanation. That I accept an offer of marriage from Dr Thomas Cornhill. I’ve turned down the proposal, which means father will withdraw his permission.

Dr Brown sank deeper into the leather chair behind the cluttered desk. Why didn’t you say anything before?

I wanted to keep it a secret until I had decided. Cora hesitated. If I…if I chose to accept the proposal, I didn’t want anyone to know it was against my wishes.

The older woman studied her with concern. It must have been a hard decision to make.

The hardest. Cora blinked back the tears that threatened. Why should what I want the most require accepting what I don’t want at all? I’m doomed, whatever I do. If only father weren’t so obstinate in his views.

Dr Brown picked up a brass paperweight in the shape of a sleeping cat from the table and smoothed her fingers over the contours. What will you do now?

I have plans, and I’m here to ask for your help. Cora paused, and then continued awkwardly. You’ve already done so much, helping me to get admitted, and now I’m letting you down…

You’re doing no such thing, Dr Brown said firmly. What is it you need?

A letter. Cora rushed out the words. I plan to leave New York, and I hope to find employment as a nurse. Since I’m not a graduate of a recognized Nurse Training School, I’ll need a letter of reference attesting to my skills.

Of course I’ll give you a reference. Dr Brown regarded her with curiosity. Where will you go?

Cora evaded the searching gaze. I’m not sure, she replied. It wasn’t really a lie. As yet, her plans remained vague. The important thing was to get away. Escaping was the only way she would have the courage to defy her father, who refused to change his outdated views about the role of women in society.

There is still time, the older woman consoled her. Dr Clemence Sophia Lozier, who founded the Medical College, didn’t graduate as a doctor until 1853. She turned forty that year.

I know. Cora exhaled a sigh. When I go away, my life won’t end. In some ways, I hope it will only begin. She rose to her feet. If it’s all right, I’ll go and fetch my things from the storeroom now. I’ll take them with me today.

It’s too late for a walk. Dr Brown turned to the window, where a layer of steam had rendered the glass opaque. It will be dark soon.

I’ll only change out of these clothes and walk home, Cora said, another lie. She was getting good at it. Her heart pounded with a mix of guilt and apprehension as she said farewell to Dr Brown, unable to predict if they would ever meet again.

****

Down in the cramped basement, Cora extracted a bundle of clothing from the crudely fashioned shelves and shook out her tailor made, a two piece suit made of sturdy blue wool flannel. She’d purchased the outfit a month ago, after settling on her secret plan that required physical fitness. The short jacket and the skirt that ended at the ankles allowed for easier walking. Her father would have disapproved, which is why Cora kept the garments stored at Dr Brown’s house.

She shed her gown and petticoats, greedily filling her lungs when the corset came off, and hurried to remove her pinching footwear. Then she dressed in the tailor made and tugged her feet into a pair of thick wool socks and strong rubber boots.

From the floor beneath the shelves, Cora hoisted up a canvas haversack. Loosening the draw-cord at one end, she pulled out the old newspapers she’d used to make the bag heavy, so hauling it would build up her strength. No need for the extra weight now, she thought as she discarded the newspapers and stuffed her corset and gown and petticoats and leather boots inside.

According to the proponents of reform clothing, the weight of female undergarments could be as much as fourteen pounds, which made it hard for a formally dressed woman to move and breathe. Inhaling deep, liberated breaths, Cora put on her hat and coat and gloves. Then she lifted the haversack over her head, positioned it comfortably across her back, climbed out of the basement, and set off along her usual trail around Central Park.

A short detour along 101st Street took her for a tearful vigil outside the New York Medical College and Hospital for Women. Her heart ached with the longing to join the more than two hundred women who had already graduated from there as doctors.

Resolutely, Cora swiped a gloved hand across her damp cheeks and continued her journey. By the time she headed home along Fifth Avenue, darkness had fallen. She paused for a rest outside the Waldorf Astoria Hotel, where fine carriages were lining up, the occupants alighting for a night of dining and dancing.

Bitterness flared up inside Cora as she raked her gaze over the festive crowd. The memory of her introduction to Society almost a decade ago still had the power to hurt. The fate of a wallflower had stung, but the lack of amusing small talk had compounded her misery. She was determined to close the door on that kind of life forever. The dream of medical college was over, but the dream of wild and faraway places was taking its place.

****

At Washington Square, gaslights high up struggled to send their beams through the freezing darkness. Cora dragged her feet over the last stretch of sidewalk, allowing weariness to take hold.

Your father has been looking for you, a deep voice came from the shadows.

Her head jerked up. The fair haired stonemason stood by the side of the front steps. Although he’d spoken, his back was turned to her now. Powerfully built, broad shouldered, he wasn’t quite as tall as she had assumed earlier, when she’d seen him kneeling down. As she approached, he reached his arms up to the stone balustrade above.

Cora frowned into the darkness. What are you doing?

I’m inspecting the iron handrail. It’s loose.

I meant, what are you doing here at this hour? It’s past nine.

I’m trying to finish the job.

There isn’t enough light to do a decent job, Cora pointed out. My father won’t pay for shoddy workmanship.

I was hoping you’d leave a lamp burning in that window. The man gestured at the front of the house. A lamp there would give me enough light to carry on.

It will be too dark.

You mostly do this by feel anyway.

Cora watched as the man ran his hands along the iron railing. To her surprise, the motion had a delicate quality, almost like a doctor examining a patient. I’ll leave you a lamp, she conceded, as long as you’ll tell me why the hurry.

I need my ten dollars. Your father said he’ll pay me as soon as I’m done.

Ten dollars? she echoed. That’s a week’s wages for a skilled man.

The man turned around. His level brows, only a few shades darker than his hair, furrowed as he took in her haversack and rubber boots. Cora could tell he’d grown curious. Her chin lifted with satisfaction at being able to unsettle the bold stranger.

It’s a week’s worth of work, and I’m a skilled man, the stonemason replied. There’s no other man who could do this in two days. Anyone else would take a full week, and do a worse job.

It occurred to Cora that the man’s obsessive diligence might be rooted in some desperate need. Is there an emergency? she asked. Is your wife or child unwell? If someone is sick or starving, I can ask my father to pay half in advance.

The man turned his attention to the handrail and spoke with his back toward her. I’ve managed to get through life without encumbering myself with a wife and children.

Then why do you need the money in such a hurry? Cora knew she shouldn’t remain standing out there in the cold, talking to a stranger, but she couldn’t make herself go inside until she had received satisfactory answers to her inquiries.

I’m going to the Klondike. I need the money for my passage, and the outfit.

Klondike! The word burst from her lips before she could restrain herself.

"Jaa. The man cast a puzzled glance over his shoulder. I thought you would have heard about the big strike for gold. The newspapers are full of it. I didn’t think there’d be anyone in the entire country who hadn’t heard."

I’ve…heard about it. Cora’s heart was racing, and this time it couldn’t be the corset, because the wretched garment lay squashed in the haversack across her back.

The man started to use a pointed tool to scrape away loose stone chippings at the base of the iron the handrail. Looks like you’ve had a long day.

Cora raised her voice to carry over the grating sound. I’m a nurse, she told him, stretching the truth somewhat. I’ve been to work. Then I went for a walk in Central Park.

The stonemason twisted around and raked his gaze over her. Cora stared back, a hard stare that challenged his earlier comment about her being a fine lady, unfamiliar with hard work. He gave a slow nod, as if to acknowledge his error. Then he resumed his task.

Your father was looking for you, he said. Seemed urgent.

My father was supposed to go to Philadelphia and not come back until tomorrow.

The man threw her another glance over his shoulder, appearing to understand that she took liberties with her clothing in her father’s absence. Despite the freezing air, Cora felt a blush warm her cheeks.

I’d better go inside, she said. I‘ll put a lamp in that window.

I’ll be done by tomorrow evening. Is your father going to be here to pay me?

If he isn’t, I can pay you. I’ll talk to him and find out what he agreed.

I already told you. It’s ten dollars when I’ve fixed the stonework on the stairs.

I’ll speak to my father, Cora said firmly.

She adjusted the weight of the sack on her back and hurried up the steps into the house. Heat spilled through the open parlor doors into the hall.

Cora? Is that you? her father called out. Where have you been?

It’s me, father, she shouted back. I’ve been to see Dr Brown. I thought you were spending the night in Philadelphia.

My conference was rescheduled. I’ll go tomorrow instead.

I didn’t know, Cora replied, and tried to think of some way to distract him. Her father didn’t usually leave his comfortable chair and come out into the hall, but with bad luck he might make tonight an exception.

You were supposed to be here. Her father’s plaintive voice drifted out from the parlor. Mrs. Sloane came to call.

Oh dear. Cora’s tone was dry. And you were forced to cope on your own.

Don’t mock me, child.

Father, it is not my fault you’re a rich widower. By now, Cora had managed to kick off her rubber boots and stow the haversack under a pile of scarves inside a walnut chest. She kept her coat on. If she bent her knees, the hem would skim the floor and her father might not notice that her feet were encased in thick woolen socks instead of leather boots.

She peeked into the parlor. Her father fixed an accusing stare at her from under his caterpillar brows. You shouldn’t have gone out, he complained. A book lay open in his lap, and on the small table beside him stood a whiskey decanter and an empty glass. His skin was flushed and his collar hung open to allow more room for his heavy jowls.

Why, why, why did she have to take after her father? Cora despaired for the thousandth time. Why couldn’t she have inherited the fragile beauty of her mother? Why did she have to have a squashy little nose, and a complexion that erupted in pimples when she ate too many chocolates? Even her best feature, abundant hair in soft chestnut brown, went to waste because the fashion required it to be twisted into tight coils around her head.

Anger at the unfairness of life pounding inside her, she bid her father goodnight. Then she spun around on her sock feet, gathered the hems of overcoat in her hands to avoid stumbling over the trailing fabric, trundled up the stairs, and sought solace in sleep.

Back to Contents

Chapter Two

In the morning, Cora’s muscles ached from the exercise. She asked Molly to boil enough water to fill the huge steel tub and lingered in the soothing heat until the stiffness in her limbs eased. Then she dressed in a purple skirt and blouse and huddled in front of the fire to dry her hair. Flames licked through a fresh batch of coals. Her father approved the extra expense to stop her from catching a chill after a bath.

The Master’s already left for Philadelphia, Molly informed her. There’s ten dollars on the mantelpiece in the parlor to pay the stonemason.

The stonemason? Cora pursed her lips. Is he there now?

Yes, the maid replied. I’ve been watching him through the parlor window. He’s a big brute, isn’t he? I saw him lift up one of them stone slabs at the bottom of the stairs. Never in all my years have I seen a man lift up a slab like that all on his own. Molly halted her torrent of words, but her mouth continued to twitch with excitement.

Only twenty-two, Molly was somewhat plain, with untidy dark curls and sallow skin. Blessed with a trim figure and a lively disposition, she dreamed of a man who would save her from a life of drudgery in domestic service.

Will you be going to the market today? Cora asked.

Yes, Miss Cora. I’m going to the fishmongers, and then I need to get some more laundry soap, and—

What time will you go? Cora cut in.

I thought I’d leave as soon as you’ve had your breakfast.

Why don’t you go right away? I’ll make my own breakfast.

Molly’s eyes grew wide. Yes, Miss Cora.

There’s a letter for me at Dr Brown’s surgery on 51st Street. Could you collect it?

Yes, Miss Cora, Molly said with a petulant air.

Cora suppressed a sigh. She disliked exerting authority over servants, and Molly had learned to make the most of her scruples. Fortunately, her father preferred a simple lifestyle, which meant they only had the cook-maid, and a cleaner who came in twice a week.

I know. It’s a long walk, Cora said. Take your time. You can stop for coffee somewhere along the way. When Molly continued to look aggrieved, Cora added, In fact, I don’t need you at all today. You can stop at a picture house, if you like. Take the money out of housekeeping.

All at once, Molly’s reluctance transformed into breezy enthusiasm. Yes, Miss Cora. I’ll be sure to be back by suppertime.

That’s fine. Just remember to collect the letter.

While she waited for Molly to leave, Cora pinned up her hair. Then she walked over to her closet, reached beneath the hanging hems of her gowns and pulled out a flat cardboard box. Gathering her skirts, she climbed to sit cross legged on the bed, opened the lid, and scattered the contents of the box over the embroidered coverlet.

Guilt at having sent Molly out niggled inside her. It was wrong to have the house empty when she planned to invite the stonemason inside. A servant ought to stand guard in the hall while she spoke to the man in the parlor, but she couldn’t risk Molly overhearing the conversation.

Her fingers reached for the first newspaper clipping, the Seattle Post-Intelligencer article about the miners who had arrived on SS Portland into Seattle from the Klondike on July 17, 1897, with a ton of gold on board.

Next, she picked up a well-thumbed booklet titled Gold Dust: How to Find It and How to Mine It. On a single sheet of paper, clipped to the back cover, were her handwritten notes about the US General Mining Act of 1872. She’d been to look it up in the library.

Once again, Cora read an article from the Skagway News, When and How to Outfit, and another article, From a Woman’s Standpoint. Last, she examined her collection of railroad and steamer timetables, and a brand new publication titled How to Reach the Goldfields of Alaska and the Klondike.

Then she gathered everything back into the box and carried it downstairs.

****

Molly had been right. The parlor window offered an excellent view of the laboring stonemason. Cora spent a few minutes watching him. The man had taken up the flagstones that connected the front steps to the sidewalk. He’d spread a layer of sand on the ground and was now smoothing the surface with a plank of wood which dangled from a short piece of rope attached to each end.

With a slow turn of his head, he looked up at her. Cora acknowledged him with a nod. The man didn’t respond, merely