Page 13 of My Darling Girls

Jo leans over the edge and peers into the murky well.

A whisper, as if the water beckons her. And she can feel it too—the pull, deep inside the well. Nothing happens at first, but then her body turns cold, and the water reaches out in one tidal wave and pulls her down, down, down.

It’s a chilly October morning in 1894 when she steps off the train in Union Station in Chicago. Taking that determined stride forward feels like taking a leap off a cliff. Like she’s going to be crushed by some force as soon as her feet connect with the platform. It’s an odd thought, but it doesn’t give her a pause. She’s already broken. There’s nothing left in her to break.

The clouds are swollen with rain, but the sunbeams manage to break through the dull sky for a brief minute. She notices him as soon as her foot lands on the platform. A tall and lone figure in a wool coat. He stands in the middle of a crowded space, the stream of passengers flowing around him as if he’s a steady rock in rushing waters. He slowly turns toward her, but his focus is on someone else. He’s inspecting, almost clinically, every female who passes him by. At some point—a slow and fractured slice of time—his gaze glides over her, not resting, not coming back for a second look. The sun dances over his face, illuminating his strong jaw and brown eyes, cloudy with nerves and anticipation. She waits, hoping he’ll realize his mistake and he’ll see her.

He turns away.

He has no clue who she is.

It’s a setback. Not a disaster. Not yet. But she’s balancing on a precipice.

The air is honed with chill in her lungs, making it difficult to breathe. Is it her hair that makes her look different? Is it too wild? Too unkempt? It wasn’t easy, but she replicated the hairdo from the photograph—a tight and complicated knot on the top of her head. Clutching her fake alligator-skin traveling bag with one hand, she smooths her hair with another. Maybe it isn’t the hair. Maybe he simply didn’t expect her to be as tall as he is. He never asked about her height. He must’ve imagined her being short. He also looks different—older than in the picture he sent. His hair is thinner but still dark and wavy. And his shoulders are stooped, as if he’s struggling with the weight of his decision. He is not thirty years old as he claimed. He’s pushing forty.

Beads of sweat form between her shoulder blades. It’s time to introduce herself. After all, she came to Chicago to be with August Lisso. To marry the man who’s standing a mere hundred feet away from her and who cannot recognize her.

She winces, steeling herself to take a few steps, but doesn’t move. Perhaps she should’ve remained in Galena where she spent a few weeks after she left Millville, her hometown. She could’ve stayed in Galena and tried to do something different with her life. There were some future prospects there. Nothing like in Chicago, of course. Much humbler. Less flashy and, definitely, less promising. But instead, here she is, standing on the train platform, trembling like a leaf in the wind.

Being fused to the ground all day is not going to solve anything. It’s not going to aid her plan of making the best first impression. So she pats her hair down again, straightens her skirt, and moves forward. She steps in front of him right when thunder grumbles in the distance, and the day turns gray again. The chilly wind rustles through her skirts.

“August?” She’s shivering even more now, either from the cold or nerves, she can’t say. Her core is so tight, she can barely keep her voice steady.

There’s a stricken look on his face when he realizes who’s standing in front of him. “Josephine?” His voice is low and gruff. His greeting is nothing like she imagined. But what had she imagined when she read the matrimonial advertisement? What had she thought of him when she looked at the daguerreotype enclosed in his first letter? She can’t remember anything under his gaze. All her thoughts are scattered like mice at the sight of a cat.

“You’re here.” He rubs his forehead, his eyes taking in her hair, her blue wool coat, and lingering on the fake alligator-skin trunk. “I couldn’t see you, and I started to think you changed your mind.”

“I’m here,” she says. Why would she change her mind when there’s a promise of marriage and financial stability? A promise to untether herself from the life she wants to forget. “I saw you as soon as I stepped off the train.” She smiles. “Call me Jo, please. Everyone calls me Jo.”

He studies her face with the same clinical precision he examined the other women leaving the train. “You look different.” He continues to survey her like one would inspect a horse before buying it at the market.

“Do I?” She forces herself to laugh because she tries not to scream. Is she foolish to believe this can work? They can work? “Must be my hair.” Her cheeks are heating up as she brushes her hand over her errant locks. “Never stays in place.” She should stop touching her hairdo. She’s making it worse.

“It’s not just your hair,” he says slowly. He isn’t angry, not yet, but there’s frustration in his voice. It’s rising off him like waves, the air around him getting heavier, colder. “You look older.”

“Older,” she repeats after him. Should she point out that he looks older too?

He nods stiffly.

The pause in their conversation is heavy with implications. She must tell him the truth. There’s no way around it. One wrong move, one not carefully chosen word, will send her back to Galena.

“Must be the train ride. It was long and tiring.” She’s balancing on the edge of a cliff, and falling off isn’t in her plans. What would become of her then? “August, I look older because the picture I sent you was done when I was sixteen. My hair has gotten a bit darker since then. I’ve gotten a bit taller.”

“You sent me a photo from four years ago?” There’s a heavy hint of incredulity in his voice. This was certainly a development he didn’t see coming. His eyes bore into hers. “I could’ve sent you money to take a more recent picture.”

He’s going to send her back.

“I thought about doing another portrait, more recent, but I couldn’t afford it. I should’ve told you. I should’ve explained in my letters.” Her face burns with shame.

He sees the flush on her face. Her trembling lips. And there’s a shift in his face. “I . . . I’m sorry.” A deep sorrow replaces coldness in his eyes. “My comment was inappropriate.”

“Would that change anything? A more recent picture?”

Blood rushes to his cheeks. “Of course not. It’s just . . . I was caught by surprise.”

He isn’t going to cast her aside, after all. Not yet. “I’m sorry too. I should’ve told you.” She chuckles, a forced and awkward caw of a crow. “On the bright side, I do have all my teeth.” Her grin is wide, showing her teeth. “That hasn’t changed since I was sixteen. All my teeth are intact.”

Marriage is a business arrangement, isn’t it?