text: Tarnished Note: this account is based on actual events in the lives of real people. Names have been changed to protect the memories of the innocent. October 17, 1905 - Tuesday My dearest James, Patience has been staring out the window for miles. We’re nearly a day into the journey, and there’s nothing much to see except for the endless prairie. I suspect she’s looking instead at mental imagery. What must she be thinking?... Feeling? It’s a tremendous change to make at her age, but I hope it will be for the best. Last night, in the sleeper, I had the hardest time settling myself! The incessant CLACKETY- clackety CLACKETY- clackety CLACKETY- clackety -- doesn’t do much for inducing sleep. In that case, Patience has the advantage. Although... surely the vibration affects her more than it does me. I don’t know what time it was when the monotony of it lulled me to sleep. The berth is as comfortable as a regular bed, although it does jiggle and jolt a bit and wake me from time to time. But, oh! The Overland Limited is just marvelous! We’re sitting in the observation car, in gorgeous upholstered chairs that I’d be proud to have in our parlor. The windows are large and clear, with a spectacular viewing area. Although, as I mentioned, there’s nothing notable to see at this point. You’ll come with me the next time, I hope! The accommodations are as luxurious as a fine hotel. There’s electric lighting throughout (isn’t that a marvel?), velvet upholstery, beautiful polished wood paneling, the best quality linens, sumptuous meals served on fine china. I will be quite spoiled! (I feel as if I’d just written a travel brochure.) I am so looking forward to seeing majestic mountains, such as I’ve never seen before. And at the end of our journey, the Pacific Ocean! I can’t imagine... Oh James, there’s that woman who buttonholed me this morning. She’s at the end of the car. She won’t look at me now, and I’m pretending not to notice her as well. I must tell you what happened. At breakfast, a couple with two half-grown children sat at the next table across from us. The woman was eyeing Patience all through the meal. She’s all gussied up in the very latest fashion, the sort of woman who wears her corsets too tight. She’ll suffer for it later, I’m sure. (I know you don’t approve of me using slang, but “gussied up” is the best way to describe her!) When her husband and the children got up from the table, she lingered. She must have said something to them about staying a bit longer, because they waved at her and left the dining car. Her wave back looked more like a shooing motion. She was clearly dismissing them. I had finished my second coffee (indulging myself, as it’s such good quality!), but Patience was still nibbling toast and sipping her tea. They have her favorite variety, such a treat for her. The woman at the next table whispered, “ Sssst!” and beckoned me to come to her. What could she want with me? With a quick glance at Patience, I got up and scooted into the chair across from her. “Yes?” “I must ask you,” (really, she ought not have), “Do you think it’s wise to take such a... person as that,” (and here she pointed at Patience. Pointed at her! So rude!) “on such a journey? My children shouldn’t have to spend their time looking at a defective!” James, my blood boiled! I could feel it rising! But you’d be proud of me - I know you would - because I managed to restrain myself and speak in a reasonable tone. Before replying, I took in a deep breath. I felt my own corset strain a bit, and you know I don’t wear it too tight. “Ma’am, let me tell you a story.” If you’d been here, you’d have known by my calmness just how very angry I was! My sister, I told the woman, was born a normal, healthy child. But when she was quite young, long before I was born, a devastating fever swept through the county. The doctor wasn’t sure Patience would live - and when she did, he wondered if she shouldn’t have. She was left profoundly deaf and unable to speak. (I’m not writing this for you, of course, dear; you know all this. I just want to tell you what I said to this woman. And I suppose it’s therapeutic for me.) By the time I was born, Patience was fifteen. She was away at a boarding school for deaf and dumb children. “And just in case you wonder,” I informed my unwilling listener, “our parents did not send her off because they didn’t want her. They sent her to give her the greatest opportunity for a normal education.” The woman was looking mightily uncomfortable by this time, no doubt wishing she’d kept as quiet as Patience does. She had begun fiddling with the clasp of her tiny mesh chatelaine: Snap! Snap! Snap! It irritated me. I looked at her (rather sternly, I suppose) and she stopped the snapping but moved to get up from the table. I put my hand on her arm. Gently. I promise, James, I was discreet. “Please, listen... My sister didn’t merely exist at the school, she thrived. She learned to read and write, and to communicate effectively using sign language. She is so much more than you perceive! “You called her defective. Patience is not defective. She’s bright, cheerful, curious, and capable. Except for the times she’s defenseless. And when I’m with her, I will defend her!” I nodded to the woman and returned to our table to collect Patience. My sister’s brow furrowed in puzzlement; I smiled at her and signed that I’d explain later. When I turned to look, the other table was vacant. Wednesday James! The mountains! They are simply indescribable, breathtakingly beautiful and dramatic. I don’t have the words -- you will have to see for yourself. You see? We haven’t reached our destination, and I’m already planning the next voyage. How does this sound? We’ll come out West next summer, and bring Maybelle and Johnny. Patience should be settled in by then, and I’ll be missing her dreadfully, I know! We’ll spend a week or perhaps two, visiting and sightseeing. Doesn’t that sound nice? We’re in the observation car again. Patience is just as enthralled with the scenery as I am. She’s smiling, gazing at those sharp peaks. So different from our plains! I’m in awe of my sister’s resilience. Here she is, over sixty years old, moving clear across the country to a new life. Watching her face now, lit up as it is, I don’t think she looks her age. Clear skin, lovely wavy brown hair with just a hint of silver at the temples. No one would suspect, just looking at her, that there’s anything out of the ordinary about her life. And yet -- I was thinking, last night, about the rest of her story. The part I didn’t tell. I was seventeen when my sister’s life changed forever -- for the second time. Patience had a large room at the back of the house, where there was plenty of space for her sewing. I so envy her talent for needlework. I can’t do half so well; my seams always end up bungled and the ruffles come out uneven. She made the dress I’m wearing, and it’s simply lovely. The bronzy one that you say matches my eyes. What am I going to do for dresses, with Patience so far away? I wonder... If she could hear, and if she could speak, would her other senses be so finely tuned? Especially her sense of touch. She has such deft fingers, and an attention to the tiniest detail. My train of thought has gone off track. Isn’t that an appropriate metaphor? Or is it a simile... No, it’s a metaphor, I’m sure. If you were here, James -- “Back to the story, Georgie!” you’d say. So I’ll pretend you’re here, and resume. The night that terrible thing happened to Patience, we were all asleep. It must have been well past midnight when the despicable worm (hardly a man!) crept into the house. He knew just where her room was, knew she wouldn’t hear him, knew she couldn’t cry out. Now, remembering all these years later, I feel the blood rising again when I think of the first newspaper article to report the crime. It described “a young gent accused of an attack upon a half-witted girl”. Oh, I was livid! As if, perhaps, the assault was justifiable for any reason at all! As if the accusation mightn’t have been valid, because the victim wasn’t a reliable source. I shudder to think how terrified Patience must have been when she realized there was a man in her room. She told us later, in writing and by signing, that she was awakened from the vibration of his footsteps. She could see the outline of him approaching, and she thought to defend herself. But before she could grab the candlestick from her night table, he was there. She knew who he was right away, she told us. She recognized the smell of his hair oil. That’s another sense she has highly refined. Patience has known him since he was born. She should have been able to trust him -- to depend on him for her defense, even. Instead, he betrayed her in the worst possible way. The actions of one human being caused another person’s life to be devastated. It brought about the severing of ties between two families, those having known one another down through several generations. I’m sorry for the blot, James. I didn’t realize that the tears were running down my face until the ink smeared. But I know you’ll understand. At least, when that vermin was captured, the papers reported him as guilty and described Patience plainly as “a deaf and dumb woman”. Still, their portrayal of her came across as someone undesirable to a man’s attentions. And what did he do? He tried another assault on her, this time on her character. He said absolutely untrue things about her, trying to suggest she’d invited him there. No one believed him, and he went to jail. Not for long enough, though. The whole community knew that Patience is a virtuous woman. Even so, her life was irrevocably tarnished. That reminds me of the proverb about silence being golden. How does it go? Speech is silver, silence is golden? Is that right? My thoughts are all tangled, just the way my sewing thread always gets. Patience cannot physically speak. She lives in silence. Sometimes that silence has not been golden; it’s been very dark. But her life shines despite it all! Thursday What a glorious day! We’ve come down from the mountains, and now there are gently rolling hills all around. I did expect them to be green, but they’re all golden brown. I’ve seen glimpses of water sparkling in the sun; we’re told they are the bays of the Pacific Ocean. So, so exciting! We’ve had our breakfast, spent the morning packing up, and just finished luncheon. Our last meal aboard. Arrival in San Francisco will be mid-afternoon. I do hope we find Theo straight off! As you know, he’s arranged for us to spend the night at the Palace Hotel, which surely can’t be any more exceptional than this train. However, it will be made better by his company! We are to dine at the hotel this evening, by way of a celebration for Theo’s 28th birthday tomorrow. Patience is looking a bit nervous, I think. She has every right to be. For me, this is an adventure and a holiday. For her, it’s another life-changing event. I hope that she will have many happy, healthy years in her new home! She managed to raise Theo into a fine young man I’m proud to call my nephew, and now he’ll be taking care of her. You know, James, here’s a bit of a conundrum. Patience has Theo in her life because of an unspeakable violation committed upon her, and yet -- he is a blessing in her old age. She has just let me know the train is slowing. I hadn’t realized it yet, but she’s right. We’re getting close! There’s fog surrounding San Francisco. It looks like a cozy blanket. I’d better finish up and be ready to disembark. In the morning, I will leave this letter for the hotel clerk to send off before we head north on the last leg of the journey -- up river on a steam boat! Expect lots of postcards in the coming days. Your loving wife, Georgina P.S. later Theo has met us, and he sends his greetings. The journey is over, and yet it has just begun!