Prologue
North End, Boston
Anna Fairleigh’s ankles ached from using the treadle all day, but it was her duty as a seamstress to operate the foot-powered sewing machine and complete as many garments as possible.
The sharp-eyed floor manager inspected every finished item and put a mark in his ledger.
There were hand-crank sewing machines, but none of the one hundred women employed at the factory ever used them—those machines were slower, and slow meant less money at the end of the day.
The warehouse in the squalid garment district in North End, by the Boston city docks, employed immigrants fresh off the boat. Hardly anyone spoke to one another except in broken English. A squeeze of the hand, a soft smile; that was how the women communicated resilience and comfort.
Both Anna’s parents had died while crossing the Atlantic on a boat from Ireland, and the sailors found a scrawny seven-year-old boy holding the hand of a tiny toddler in the hull after docking.
She’d been sent straight to the local parish orphanage, a blessing in disguise.
She was schooled, clothed, and fed until the nuns decided it was time for her to earn her keep.
Praised for her embroidery and neat stitches, Anna chose to become a seamstress.
Although it must be said that her dreams of a better, brighter life had never included working in a dingy, soot-filled long shed on the docks from dawn to dusk.
But the money she received at the end of the day made it worthwhile.
She kept her head down in the queue and stared at the floor while hopping from one foot to the other.
The owner of the garment factory where she toiled was unconcerned about his workforce having to queue for over an hour in order to receive their daily wages.
After a woman told him who she was, he always took his time asking the floor manager to find the name in the ledger and read out her tally of garments for the day.
He would consult his payment sheet at a snail’s pace, do a calculation in his head, and then count out the nickels and dimes onto the table.
But that wasn’t the end of it. He would look the woman up and down before slowly pushing the coins across the table to her.
The woman had to wait with her head lowered until he gave her permission to take the wages. Eye contact was frowned upon.
Six days a week, a hundred times a day, the procedure was always the same. Until one day, when Anna’s turn to be paid came, and the boring routine changed.
“Your tally is two dollars and fifty cents for the day’s work, girl.”
Anna didn’t say anything. It was the first time the factory owner had ever addressed one of the women directly. The floor manager replied on her behalf.
“Anna Fairleigh is our fastest, neatest seamstress, sir. I trained her myself.”
That was a lie. The only thing the floor manager ever did to train the women was to rap their knuckles with a wooden cane and tell them to sew faster.
She sensed the owner smiling. “Look up, girl. Let me see your face.”
She did as she was told. Anna had no reason to be ashamed of her appearance; she made all her clothes herself.
The stiff white blouse and serge skirt were covered by a work smock, hiding her slender frame but not her medium height.
As for her thick chestnut-brown hair, she wore it braided and pinned low at the nape of her neck.
Hair pins were costly, so a few wisps always hung loose to frame her face.
Anna considered herself to be ordinary; perhaps her clear gray-blue eyes and classic straight nose could have been considered attractive.
But vanity wasn’t encouraged at the orphanage, so it had never factored into her life.
One blink and she lowered her head again, unwilling to show the boss how uncomfortable she felt by being singled out.
“Would you like to sew white goods, girl?”
She would.
Making white goods—high-quality linens, men’s shirts, and women’s undergarments—was a seamstress’s dream occupation. It paid handsomely, with reported earnings of up to twenty dollars a week, compared to the twelve dollars she earned now.
The factory owner reached for her hand and inspected it. “Clean hands and well-presented. I like that.” He turned to the floor manager. “Bring this woman to my office tomorrow morning.”
Breathless, Anna took her earnings and headed for the exit. With a salary of twenty dollars a week, she could move out of her horrible accommodation and find somewhere nicer to stay. Her heart beat faster, too full of joy to do anything other than smile.
But then, a woman grabbed her by the wrist, making Anna stop short.
“You, Anna, do not go there. Very bad.” The woman, whom she knew only as Marlene, had worked at the garment factory for the longest time but still spoke in a thick Dutch accent. Anna held the woman’s hand gently. It was scarred with thin white scissor cuts like her own.
“Where must I not go, Marlene?”
The woman looked back at the long shed door. “To the office. The big boss, he will force you to do bad things.”
Anna was a clever young woman and needed no other information than what Marlene gave her.
For one moment, she was tempted to take the promotion, even if it meant having to offer her cheek for an unwelcome kiss.
But she was taught at the orphanage to never let the devil inside the door.
One thing always led to another, and who knew where it would end.
That fiery spark of independence that burned fiercely in her heart knew that such a compromise would haunt her, and no amount of money could fix it.
She hugged the seamstress, a warm, spontaneous gesture even though it felt like her world was collapsing inside. “Thank you, Marlene. Tell the other girls I bid them farewell. I’d rather be jobless than have that old codger chase me around his office!”
Marlene chuckled and gave her a hug. Anna turned and walked away from her only source of income, forcing herself to keep her head held high.
She was sad to have to start a new job, but she’d never turned away from new beginnings and fresh starts. Maybe it was her Irish spirit, but seeking greener pastures was in her blood.
She stopped at the pastry shop on the way home. There was nothing better to lift her mood than nibbling the delicious buttery pastry of a chicken pie for supper.
“I haven’t got a paper bag for you, miss,” the baker was apologetic, “but I can wrap the pie in newspaper.”
“Fair enough. It will give me something to read tonight.”
The baker chuckled and wished her well. Swinging her small drawstring purse, Anna headed back to her room. She didn’t call it her home because the people who owned the house made it very unwelcoming.
The nuns had placed an advertisement in the Boston Globe when she’d turned twelve.
They wanted to find a good Catholic home for the young girl, a cozy establishment from which she could launch herself as a seamstress.
Millie and Davy O’Hara were one of the couples who responded to the advertisement.
They claimed kinship with Anna, saying that Millie’s mother was a Fairleigh back in the old country, and Anna had been stuck with the selfish pair ever since.
Night had fallen by the time she trudged up the six flights of stairs to the O’Haras’ tenement apartment. She held her breath, moving as quietly as she could—Millie and Davy were belligerent folk who took pleasure in bullying all four of their unfortunate tenants.
Anna was one of the lucky ones. The parish had negotiated reasonable terms for her room and, as outwardly obedient Catholics, the O’Haras were bound to honor it.
This didn’t stop Millie and Davy from trying to beg and borrow money from her whenever they crossed paths, but at least the rent was affordable.
After rinsing her face and hands in the washstand bowl, she took the box of matches out of her bag and lit the oil lamp.
The golden light rose and spread over the walls and ceiling.
Anna sighed as she poured a glass of water from the pewter pitcher to drink with her pie.
Going downstairs to heat the stovetop kettle for tea wasn’t worth the grief.
Millie always loitered behind her, checking to see that Anna used her own tea and sugar.
A battered old tea caddy sat on the shelf.
She checked to make sure the door was closed before taking it down and prying off the lid.
Sniffing the black tea leaves, she savored the fragrance for only a moment before reaching for a leather pouch hidden at the bottom, which she took out carefully.
This was her life savings, the most precious thing in her world.
“One day… one day, I’ll leave this place far behind.” She didn’t dream of fancy frocks or pretty hats. All Anna wanted was the freedom to make her own choices. She had been told what to do and how to do it ever since she could remember.
Taking the two-dollar notes out of her pocket, she folded them into a neat square and opened the pouch. She would keep the fifty cents and put it toward paying her rent for the week...
But something was wrong.
Anna dropped to her knees next to the oil lamp.
The pouch was full of coins, but all the tiny squares of folded dollars were gone.
The missing dollars amounted to a fortune in Anna’s eyes.
Under the glowing lamplight, she inspected the caddy closely.
There was all the proof she needed—large, greasy fingerprints marred its shining surface.
Her temper flared as she stormed downstairs.
“Aunt Millie, someone has been making free with my hard-earned money! I demand you give it back.”
The people who insisted that she address them as “aunt” and “uncle” were seated in the parlor.
Millie was wearing a brand new shawl made from Norwich silk.
She made no effort to hide it, just as Davy didn’t bother hiding the large bottle of whisky on the Welsh dresser and the empty glass on the table.
“You’re forgetting something, Anna,” Millie was unusually calm for someone who had been caught red-handed. “You’re twenty-five now, and that means your guardianship with the Holy Church has ended.”
Their gall took her breath away. “What’s that got to do with it?”
Davy smirked. “A young lady such as yourself lives under the banner of the Church’s protection until she is thought to be old enough to make her own decisions. You’re free to marry without asking for the priest’s consent now—and that means we’re free to raise your rent as high as we like.”
Millie went on smugly. “You can find another place if you don’t like it. But don’t expect a glowing reference from us.”
Anna felt weak. She couldn’t expect a reference from her job at the garment factory, either. But there was no choice here, either, merely swallowing her frustration and anger and withdrawing.
Never before had she felt so trapped and helpless. After clasping her hands together to say a quick grace, she unwrapped her supper. Her pie was already cold, but it was sustenance.
With nothing better to do while the oil lamp burned bright, she decided to follow through on her promise and read the newspaper. The first thing that caught her eye was an advertisement, in large print:
WE ARE LOOKING FOR THE FINEST CALICO CARGO
Anna felt a stir of excitement. She knew how to sew calico. Perhaps this could be her new job?
Follow your good fortune and take a bride ship to the West Coast! she read.
Ladies, heed our call. The nation’s loneliest and bravest pioneers—cowboys, prospectors, loggers, and ranchers—seek adventurous gentlewomen looking for new opportunities.
At this very moment, Mr. Asa Shinn Mercer is organizing an expedition in an effort to supply social companions to service the huge demand for wives in the West. Passage, berth, food, and beverages are free for any eligible bride.
Are you ready to establish the schools and sewing circles so sorely needed in wild San Francisco?
The invitation hit her like a wave, and Anna only dimly realized she was holding the half-eaten pie in her hand.
She chewed the last piece with thoughts racing as she read the address provided at the bottom of the advertisement.
It asked that all interested parties report to an office on the North End docks between the hours of ten a.m. and four p.m. all week, and more information would be provided.
The possibility of leaving it all behind and never having to bear another East Coast winter again made Anna smile to herself.
No true Boston gentleman would ever want to marry an orphan with nothing but nimble fingers to recommend her.
And if she continued to stay with the O’Haras, the chances were high that she would never save enough to make a comfortable life for herself.
In a city of docklands and tenement buildings—and all the nastiness that sort of environment brought with it—sailing away to the opposite side of the continent seemed wonderful.
Wide-open spaces. Fresh air. Sea breezes. Anna longed to experience those things. With her hopes high, she prepared for bed, closed her eyes, and turned the wick knob of the oil lamp until the flame sputtered and went out.