Bay City Belle. Shirley Kennedy

hat placed firmly atop her upswept hair. Hard to imagine that in less than five days she’d be in California. Why had she been so fearful of traveling alone? Now the train ride didn’t seem daunting at all. The rest of the way, she’d be traveling on the same train. Only the names of the railroad company would change: the Union Pacific Line to Ogden, Utah; the Central Pacific Line to Sacramento; the Western Pacific Line to the Oakland Pier where a quick ferryboat ride would carry her across San Francisco Bay to her journey’s end and the future husband who’d be eagerly awaiting her. What could be easier?

      The train from Chicago arrived on time. Belle climbed aboard the third car from the engine and searched for a vacant seat. Not many were available. The first one she passed was next to a woman with a crying baby on her lap. No, thank you. The next available seat was beside an older lady, somewhere in her seventies, she’d guess, bone thin, with a face full of wrinkles, dressed quite elegantly in a dark wool suit and a small black hat decorated with black beads and a black feather plume. She was busy with some sort of crocheting. Belle bent over the seat and inquired, “Excuse me, is this seat taken?”

      The lady’s gaze swept over her. She dropped her crocheting to her lap. Her mouth pursed, as if she’d just sucked a lemon. “No, it is not.”

      “Then would you mind if I sat down?”

      “Suit yourself.”

      Not exactly a warm invitation. Belle glanced up the aisle, but all other seats seemed to be occupied. So she would indeed suit herself and sit down, despite the lady’s unfriendly reply. She settled herself and placed her valise under the seat. Would the lady remain silent? Would they ride clear to California without an exchange of words? Surely not, and she would try again. She placed a smile on her face and turned toward her seatmate. “Hello, I’m Belle Ainsworth from Savannah, Georgia. This is my first time on the transcontinental railroad, and I’m so excited.”

      She sat back and waited. Mrs. Sour Face would be compelled to reply or be guilty of committing a horrendous breach of etiquette.

      The lady turned her head slowly, with obvious reluctance. “I’m Mrs. Edith Hollister from San Francisco. This is my third time on the transcontinental railroad, and I’m not excited at all.”

      “Oh. I see. Well…” Belle floundered around for words.

      “You can speak if you like,” declared Mrs. Hollister. “But I’m not one for idle chitchat. So you’re from the South?”

      “Yes, Savannah, Georgia.” Like I said.

      “Then you should know I dislike talking about the Civil War. That’s all you Southerners talk about, even though the whole affair is long since over and done with. I find the entire subject quite boring.”

      Boring? Father, Gregory, Bridger, Jeremy, all the others. “Never fear, I wouldn’t dream of discussing the Civil War with you.” She refrained from adding, or anything else for that matter, but made no effort to conceal the annoyance in her voice.

      Mrs. Hollister drew back, as if surprised at Belle’s touchy reply. “No need to get huffy. I apologize. I had no wish to offend you.”

      “Quite all right.” It wasn’t all right, and neither was the woman’s phony apology, but Belle said no more, and soon, with a long, piercing blow of a whistle and a near-deafening huffing and chuffing, the train got under way. She wished she was sitting by the window so she could get a better view. She wanted to see out, though, and was forced to peer across her aloof seatmate in order to see anything. There wasn’t much. After the train left the outskirts of Omaha, aside from a few farms, her view consisted of sand and tumbleweeds.

      “Not much to see out there, is there?” Mrs. Hollister asked.

      Fancy that. Her unpleasant seatmate had spoken in a sociable fashion. Belle’s inclination was to ignore her, but they’d be riding together a long way, and better to at least be on a speaking basis. “No, there isn’t much to see, but I’m fascinated anyway. They say the building of the transcontinental railway was a great feat of engineering.”

      Mrs. Hollister wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “I really can’t see what’s so difficult about laying a train track. If you ask me, they could have laid the entire thing where the ground was flat, but no, they’re bent on terrifying the poor passengers. We go through tunnels you think will never end, and bridges? Wait till we get to Evans Pass. That’s in Wyoming. There’s a trestle high over Dale Creek where you look hundreds of feet straight down. I give my heart to God every time we cross it.”

      Belle had studied enough geography to know two rather large mountain chains made finding a flat route to California impossible. She would refrain from saying so, though. “What’s our next stop?”

      “I’ve no idea, but it’ll be soon. The train must stop every hundred miles or so to take on water. Something about steam for the boiler. So very tedious. I should think there’d be a better way, but of course no one’s asking what I think.”

      To Belle’s relief, they started chatting in a civilized manner, although she didn’t appreciate her companion’s negative views on everything from the railroad company’s choice of routes to the crying baby up the aisle, who, according to Mrs. Hollister, shouldn’t have been allowed on the train until it was twelve years old. Once she got going, there was no stopping her. Apparently she’d decided Belle was not only worth talking to but should be made aware of her high status in life. In great detail she described her fancy home in San Francisco—a mansion, she called it, “High on Nob Hill where the robber barons live.” She lamented the fact that the train had yet to provide a separate car for first-class passengers, “Where I wouldn’t have to associate with riffraff and low-class persons.” But at least the Union Pacific Railroad had finally seen fit to add a dining car, far superior to when the train had to stop at a series of dreadful shacks beside the tracks where the passengers were given twenty minutes to eat, and the food consisted of rancid meat, cold beans, and old coffee. Because there wasn’t one decent jewelry store in San Francisco, she’d been compelled to travel clear across the country to Tiffany & Company in New York. “My dear, I wouldn’t dream of going anyplace else.” This time around, she’d bought a hundred-piece china service, carefully packed and stored in the baggage car, and—she touched the butterfly brooch on her shoulder—“I love this. Eighteen-carat gold, and those are real diamonds in the center, all fifteen of them. And of course, my real pearl necklace and my rings.” She held up her hands and wiggled her fingers, four of which bore expensive-looking rings. “These are all from Tiffany’s.”

      Belle remained unimpressed. The snobbish woman had talked of nothing but herself and hadn’t shown the slightest interest in why her seatmate was traveling west. Fine with Belle. Although she’d convinced herself no shame should be attached to being a mail-order bride, she didn’t care to say so and was grateful her pretty much one-way conversation with her newfound companion helped pass the time.

      Late in the day, a steward in a white jacket came through the car ringing a chime, announcing, “First call for dinner.”

      “Shall we go?” Mrs. Hollister inquired.

      “Sounds wonderful.” Despite the woman’s snobbishness and pessimism, Belle was happy to go along. Who wanted to eat alone?

      “You’ll find the food is excellent,” Mrs. Hollister said. “They don’t give you a choice of table, though. In the past, I’ve highly objected, but it does no good. You must eat with whomever they put you with.”

      Belle suppressed a smile. After long hours of listening to Mrs. Hollister, she would love to talk to someone with a more positive view of life.

      The dining car was situated ahead of the caboose, three cars back from their own. She soon discovered getting there was no easy feat. The cars were connected by an open passage, exposed to the elements. To get from one car to the next, she must step over a shifting plate between the swaying cars, nothing on either side but chain guardrails. She glanced downward at the ground flying by beneath her feet. One slip and she’d be gone forever. To make matters worse, soot, red-hot cinders, and ash from the exhaust of the locomotive