Free Valley of the Moon by Melanie Gideon Page A

learned she would have to relieve herself in a privy. I could see she was fit. Her hands were red and rough like Martha’s; she used them to make a living.
    “Where in San Francisco do you reside?” I asked.
    “Noe Valley.”
    “Where do you work?”
    “At a pub.”
    “You’re a barkeep?”
    “I’m a waitress, but don’t look so shocked. Women bartend, too. Where are we going?”
    She was afraid I was taking her back to the fog. I have to admit, if I’d been told I’d traveled back in time nearly seventy years, I’d have run back to my own time as fast as I could. That would be most people’s natural reaction. Instead she’d worked hard to keep an open mind. She listened intently and soaked up every little detail, and gradually, over the course of the afternoon, I’d seen Greengage cast its spell on her. She hadn’t said anything to that effect, but it was written on her face—awe.
    Despite my misgivings about her, I was heartened to see Greengage had lost none of its charms. Indeed, it had a beauty and goodness that seemed to transcend questions like the ones we were grappling with today. If she really was from 1975 (and I still wasn’t convinced), I couldn’t begin to imagine the things she’d seen. The kind of life she lived. That our simple community had dazzled her gave me hope.
    All at once I realized how badly I wanted for her to be real. To be who she said she was.
    “I’m taking you to the house for a rest. I’m sure you must be fatigued.”
    She smiled. “I am. I am fatigued.”
    “We eat early. The dinner bell rings at six.”
    Her face clouded over. “I don’t have any money to pay for dinner. I didn’t bring any with me. I’m sorry.”
    That was four times in the last hour that she’d apologized. I couldn’t hold my tongue.
    “You must stop saying you’re sorry every other minute. It’s—there’s simply no need for it.” I stopped myself from saying how unattractive it was to hear a woman apologizing all the time. “There is no fee for dinner. You are our guest.”
    I hadn’t laid my hand on any currency in four months. That had been one of the unforeseen boons of our strange circumstances, not having to worry about money, dispensing it or making it.
    She stared at me, her color high.
    “I didn’t mean to offend you,” I said.
    “You’re right. I apologize too much. I hate that about myself.” She looked off into the middle distance. “I’ll help clean up, then.”
    “That’s not necessary.”
    “But everybody here pulls their weight. You just showed me that. I can’t take something from you without giving something back.”
    “You are our guest,” I repeated. “We don’t expect anything in return.”
    Her eyes welled up with sudden tears.
    —
    “Joseph, you old boot,” said Fancy. She sat on the front porch, waiting for us. “You’ve monopolized Lux for far too long. Give somebody else a chance.”
    “We were on a tour,” I said.
    “What did he show you? The boring workshop? The chicken coop? I would have taken you to meet Dear One.”
    Dear One, known to everybody else as Eleanor, was the daughter of Polly Bisbee (our childhood cook) and was Fancy’s closest friend.
Dear One
as in “Dear One, would you get me a cup of tea?” “Dear One, would you mind ever so much closing that window?” She’d been Fancy’s companion until my mother died, and then she became her lady’s maid. Fancy would never refer to her as a maid now. My sister had been slower to evolve than me, but eventually she had come around.
    Fancy and Eleanor were not permanent residents of Greengage. In fact, they’d arrived for their annual visit just days before the earthquake. It had taken them four weeks to travel by steamship from London to New York and then another week on the train from New York to San Francisco.
    “I would love to meet Dear One,” said Lux.
    Fancy jumped up from her chair. “We’re off, then!”
    “No, she is in need of a rest,” I said.
    Lux