The Journey of Josephine Cain Read online

  The Journey of Josephine Cain

  ISBN-10: 0-8249-3427-X

  ISBN-13: 978-0-8249-3427-9

  Published by Summerside Press, an imprint of Guideposts

  16 East 34th Street

  New York, New York 10016

  SummersidePress.com

  Guideposts.org

  Summerside Press™ is an inspirational publisher offering fresh,

  irresistible books to uplift the heart and engage the mind.

  Copyright © 2013 by Nancy Moser. All rights reserved.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced, stored in a retrieval

  system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic,

  mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the

  written permission of the publisher.

  Distributed by Ideals Publications, a Guideposts company

  2630 Elm Hill Pike, Suite 100

  Nashville, TN 37214

  Guideposts, Ideals, and Summerside Press are registered trademarks of Guideposts.

  Though this story is based on actual events, it is a work of fiction.

  All Scripture quotations are taken from The Holy Bible,

  King James Version.

  Cover design and interior design by Müllerhaus Publishing Group,

  Mullerhaus.net

  Printed and bound in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Dedication

  To my father-in-law, Bill Moser

  (1930–1996)

  A hardworking man who

  got his start working on the railroad

  With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation’s wounds.

  —ABRAHAM LINCOLN

  Contents

  Prologue

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  PART TWO

  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

  PART THREE

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Author’s Note

  Discussion Questions

  About the Author

  Prologue

  April 14, 1865

  Life was good.

  Josephine Cain beamed as she and her mother entered Ford’s Theatre on the arms of her father, who smiled graciously at those offering congratulations and greetings.

  An artillery sergeant approached them. “It is quite the celebration, is it not, General Cain?”

  Josephine had become very good at recognizing a soldier’s rank by his chevrons and sashes. This man wore the red wool of a noncommissioned officer.

  Papa wore the buff sash of a general. This very evening Josephine had embraced the honor of wrapping Papa’s sash twice around his waist and tying it over his left hip. She had been very careful to align the two tassels to hang just so.

  “It is a celebration that comprises only five days of peace after four years of hell,” Papa said to the sergeant. “There is still much to do to heal this nation. I simply pray it can be healed.”

  The man looked shocked, as if he had no doubt.

  Josephine squeezed her father’s arm while keeping her eyes upon the sergeant. “When my brother and cousin come home, then it will truly be over,” she said.

  The sergeant’s eyebrows rose. “Of course. General. Ladies.” He excused himself.

  As soon as he left, Mother leaned across Papa and spoke to her. “The sergeant had no wish to hear your opinion, Josephine. He wanted to speak to your father.”

  Papa smiled down at Josephine. “It just so happens that in this, your opinion is my opinion.”

  So there.

  “You simply want the boys home so you can go on your Grand Tour together,” Mother said.

  “That is not true. But can I help it if I’m eager to see Europe?” Josephine said. “We were all set to go, and then this stupid war—”

  Papa pulled free of her arm. “Never, ever call this war stupid,” he said under his breath. “To do so diminishes the sacrifices made on both sides.”

  Josephine hated having him cross with her—and she also hated that others might witness her scolding. She smiled at him prettily and said, “I am sorry, Papa. It was selfish of me to say such a thing.”

  “It most certainly was,” Mother said.

  If Josephine collected all the two cents her mother added to conversations, she would be independently wealthy.

  “In fact,” Mother continued, “I am not sure I shall let Thomas go anywhere after he returns home, and I know my sister will concur and keep William close too. The boys have been gone far too long already.”

  “But—”

  Papa shushed them. He was right. This argument could be delayed—for a short time. Tonight Josephine wanted to concentrate on the most important man in her life. Papa was home, and though his military duties would likely drag on for a few more months, tonight she had him in her presence. She was going to savor every moment.

  Josephine loved the attention they received as they meandered through the lobby of the theater and took their seats. She knew much of it was due to Papa’s rank and station—after all, he was a confidant of President Lincoln’s—but she hoped some of the notice was devoted to her appearance. She felt beautiful in her evergreen velvet gown. She hadn’t had a new gown since the war began, but when Papa had confided that it would likely end soon, he had given permission to have this one made.

  She had personally told the dressmaker to add short gold fringe along the wide, off-the-shoulder band, and longer fringe to accentuate the draped scallops along the bottom of the overskirt. For the occasion her mother had generously offered to let her borrow an emerald necklace. Josephine was grateful, but then she’d been bold. Could she please borrow the amber necklace instead? The tawny orange stones might be a striking contrast to the deep green of her dress and accentuate the ginger cast of her hair. It turned out Josephine was right—as she usually was in all things pertaining to fashion.

  Their seats were front and center, just six rows back. The presidential box was raised and to their right, its railing draped in the stars and stripes. Two arches highlighted one extended seating area, and white lace curtains opened within each arch beneath heavy gold fabric swags. A portrait of George Washington hung on the center-point outside the balcony, as if the first president’s job was to connect the two viewing areas. She had a thought that President Washington would be very relieved the war between the states that he had helped unite was finally over.

  The president and Mrs. Lincoln sat to the right side of the box, and another couple sat in the archway to the left. The woman looked fairly young. “Who is that girl, Papa?”

  Papa squinted. “Ah yes, that’s Clara Harris. She is the daughter of Senator Harris, and the man with her is her fiancé, Major Henry Rathbone. A good man, Rathbone.”

/>   Josephine felt a twinge of jealousy. Clara Harris had a fiancé and had been invited to sit in the president’s box? Josephine imagined herself in that spot, perhaps with Papa by her side.

  But as for a fiancé? The absence of eligible men in Washington was another reason she was glad the war was over. She ached to be courted and taken to parties and soirees where she could enjoy a beau’s company.

  The play began. Our American Cousin was a comedy, but Josephine didn’t pay much attention to it. Her eyes were on Clara Harris, admiring the lace on her dress and wondering what the play looked like from her vantage point.

  Enough daydreaming. Josephine forced herself to be thankful for her own pretty dress and Papa’s presence beside her.

  But just as she chastised herself, just as Josephine decided she really should watch the play so she could discuss it later, she saw a man enter the box from behind the president. She assumed it was a servant, bringing refreshment, but then—

  A gunshot rang out!

  A scream.

  Another scream—her own.

  Josephine pointed to the box. “The president’s been shot!”

  The shooter tried to escape, but Major Rathbone struggled with him, adding his own scream to the uproar as he was stabbed and slashed with a knife.

  The shooter jumped from the box to the stage and said something in Latin, then limped away.

  The audience was on its feet. She saw the crowds in the two tiers of balconies vying for a view—or perhaps seeking a means for their own escape.

  “Papa, what should we do?”

  General Cain pulled his wife and daughter under the protection of his arms, but Josephine sensed from the twitchiness of his muscles that he struggled between chasing the shooter, helping the president, or herding them all to safety. She could feel the beating of his heart through his uniform. He yelled out, “Doctor! He needs a doctor!”

  Help was already in motion with people rushing to the president’s aid. One man came into the box from the door and another was lifted up from the stage. President Lincoln slumped in his wife’s arms. The initial communal screams of fright had been replaced by wails of sorrow and disbelief.

  “He’ll be all right, won’t he?” Josephine asked.

  Papa’s eyes were locked on Lincoln. She heard him murmur under his breath, “Please God, please God, please God . . .”

  Josephine joined him in prayer.

  PART ONE

  I like the dreams of the future

  better than the history of the past.

  —THOMAS JEFFERSON

  Chapter One

  Washington, DC

  One Year Later

  Frieda carried a black mourning dress into the bedroom. With one look, Josephine knew she could not put it on.

  Not today.

  Not on the day of Papa’s homecoming. She would not greet him wearing black.

  “Take it away, Frieda,” she said. “And please bring me the green velvet.”

  Frieda put her hands on her hips and gave Josephine a well-honed look.

  Josephine shook her head. “Take that horrible death-dress away, I say.”

  “I will not,” Frieda said. “You are still in mourning. If you come downstairs wearing anything but black, your mother will faint dead away, and you’ll have her to mourn too.”

  Josephine bypassed her maid and entered the dressing room that housed her many gowns—beautiful, lush dresses befitting the daughter of General Reginald Cain. She perused the line of gowns until she found the one that suited her mood. “Here. This one.” It was an evening dress of lush velvet.

  Frieda’s head shook left, then right, in a stubborn no. “It is simply not proper, Liebchen. You are to mourn your brother and cousin a full year, and then wear a deep violet—”

  “I shall mourn them a year,” she said. “I shall mourn Thomas and William the rest of my life. But not today, please not today. I’ve just spent the entire afternoon sitting with Mother and Aunt Bernice, staring at the walls. I’ve done my duty. This evening is meant to celebrate Papa’s return—even if he is leaving again.” She looked back to the mirror, hoping Frieda would let her break the rule of etiquette just this once. “I won’t complain about wearing black for a whole month.”

  “Well . . .”

  Josephine kissed her cheek. “It will make Papa so happy. You’ll see.”

  “You have always been your father’s pet.”

  It was true. They shared a closeness that belied the time they had spent apart during the four long years of war, and this last year of post-war rebuilding. They both loved learning and adventure, and they shared an exhilaration about life’s possibilities.

  Unlike Mother.

  Although Josephine loved her mother, their interests were as far apart as black and white, up and down, North and South. Always a homebody, Mother had planted even deeper roots since Thomas was killed.

  Frieda interrupted her thoughts. “Come now. Since you have won the skirmish, let us get this gown on you.”

  Frieda Schultz was Papa’s unmarried cousin. She had lived with the Cains for as long as Josephine could remember, first as her nanny and then as her lady’s maid. Josephine loved her maid more than she loved her mother. She had certainly spent more time with Frieda, who had virtually raised her from birth and schooled her in reading, writing, and other important lessons of life. Mother might have run the household, but Frieda had run the children’s lives, and both Josephine and Thomas had looked to her for maternal nourishment. It was backward to what she knew she should feel, but so it was.

  But then a year ago the balance of the household had shifted permanently when they had received news that Thomas and cousin William had been killed in the final days of the war. Aunt Bernice moved in, and suddenly, daily, Josephine was asked to sit with her mother and aunt as they grieved. During those interminable hours, Josephine felt as if she were dying a slow death.

  The dress on, Josephine relished the feel of the luxurious fabric against her skin. She walked up and back, enjoying how the weight of the skirt swayed back and forth like a bell when she walked, embodying the grace and elegance of womanhood. It felt so good to wear something pretty again. If only Mother would allow her to go out and socialize . . . How was she supposed to find a husband while held prisoner in her own home?

  Or didn’t Mother care? She often wondered whether Mother liked the notion of Josephine remaining by her side forever. Till death do us part.

  That was not acceptable. Josephine wanted a husband, a house, a family . . . all the things girls her age dreamed about. Between the restrictions of mourning and the distressing fact that the pool of young marriageable men was sadly smaller, Josephine longed for something exceptional to burst into her life, take her breath away, and make her happy.

  Happiness wasn’t a bad thing, was it? Wasn’t this country founded on the principle that its citizens had the right to the “pursuit of happiness”?

  The clock on the mantel struck five. Papa’s train was arriving in Washington this very hour, and he would be home for dinner. And then . . .

  She was more than ready to talk with him about her plan.

  Josephine turned to Frieda. “Will he be pleased?”

  Frieda kissed her forehead. “How could he be otherwise?”

  Josephine descended the stairs and braced herself.

  As expected, her mother and aunt were seated at either side of the fireplace in the parlor, two she-bears enshrouded in dark mantles. Only their plump faces and short fingers provided Josephine’s eyes some relief from the color of death. Even their palms were covered in black fingerless gloves. They existed in this state of near-hibernation, exuding an unspoken warning for others to stay away: Do not disturb. Our growl is as fierce as our bite.

  Josephine paused outside the doorway in an attempt to ignite a spark of courage. She didn’t wish to offend by her choice of dress, but the truth was, wearing mourning would not bring the boys back, nor would it erase the sadness that gnawed a
t her heart. Josephine prayed that someday sorrow’s teeth would be worn down, lessening its sting.

  She looked down at her dress, adjusting the neckline to properly cover her bosom so she would cause the least offense. Her gold bracelet sparkled in the candlelight, and she held her hand in midair, second-guessing her choice to dress up for Papa’s homecoming.

  Dowd, their butler, entered the foyer behind her left shoulder. “Miss Josephine?”

  She was forced to follow through with her intent. “Papa should be here any moment, Dowd. Please make sure everything is ready for his arrival.”

  “We are well prepared, miss.” His eyes traveled the length of her dress, as if to imply that she was not.

  Hadn’t Papa seen enough death and mourning? Surely he would be happy to see his daughter—his one and only surviving child—at her prettiest. Especially since he’d been gone for two months in the Nebraska territory working on an enormous new project, a railroad that would someday connect the East Coast with the West. She hoped he would appreciate her effort tonight. Even more than that, she hoped he would listen to her proposal.

  Her future depended on it.

  Josephine squared her shoulders and entered the bears’ den.

  As if by a common decision, her mother and aunt looked up from their tea, set their cups upon their saucers with a near synchronized clink, and opened their mouths to speak.

  Mother’s words came out first. “What are you wearing, Josephine? Where—”

  “—is your mourning?” Aunt Bernice finished.

  Josephine’s heart fluttered in her throat. “I set it aside in honor of Papa’s return.”

  “There is no setting aside,” Mother said.

  “One does not set aside mourning,” her aunt parroted.

  Josephine moved to the apex of the womanly triangle, taking care not to venture close enough to be drawn into their lair. “I mean no disrespect for either Thomas or William. I love them and miss them as much as anyone.”

  “By this action you show otherwise,” Mother said.

  “Otherwise,” Aunt said, shaking her head.

  How could she explain? “What is in my heart doesn’t need to be worn on my sleeve, does it? Besides, today is a day of celebration. Today, for a short while, Papa is finally ours again.”