St. Louis May 1873
We married in the spring of next year after Adolphe insisted on a leisurely winter courtship. Other ladies might have felt that a marriage between a divorced woman and a much younger man was shameful, but our love felt inevitable and natural. We were comfortable joking about our unusual affair; I pretended to scour the society pages and read aloud invented stories about our scandal—the innocent young immigrant helpless before the conniving divorcee and her throng of needy children.
Ah my children! Ada was yet too young to marry, but keeping her away from Mr. Crosby was an impossibility. Chauncey had a promising career, and while we would never warm to each other personally, his conduct was that of a perfect gentleman. I pretended not to notice that her “trips to the department store” were more often rendezvous with her suitor.
Unexpectedly, Adolphe and Ada formed a close bond of their own. He fussed over her, and she adored attention when it came from him rather than from me. He gave her nicknames in German and taught her mischievous phrases she could use to tease me. His fatherly instincts lifted a burden I hadn’t known I was carrying; I was no longer a sole caretaker and could begin to make space for my own dreams.
Bernard was another matter. At any given time, he might hold down a respectable job—a clerk at one store or another—but inevitably he would be asked to move along. When he was unemployed he would stay out all hours, then sleep all day and not emerge from his room until driven by hunger and conveniently available to collect whatever Ada and I had procured for the evening meal.
Just as Chauncey and I did not find each other agreeable company, Adolphe and Bernard clashed almost immediately. It was not jealousy; my son had no love for his father and did not want the responsibility of being the man of the house. Instead, I think he was intimidated by my husband’s easy manner and worldliness. Bernard expected sympathy for his rough upbringing—moving around constantly, with one parent basically a child herself and a father who lost interest in him. Adolphe had sailed around the world yet was at home anywhere. Despite Bernard’s persistent rudeness, my husband never wavered in trying to befriend and support my son.
I was not even sure Bernard would attend our wedding, but when I emerged from my rooms that morning he was already waiting in the common area, wearing a colorful plaid vest he acquired from who-knows-where, looking clean and presentable and very unlike a rowdy boy of nineteen. He was speaking comfortably with Mr. Crosby; surprisingly they had become fast friends. Ada was beaming. She looked so relaxed and happy it made my already full heart soar.
The custodian of the Chouteau house had allowed us to use her dining room for the ceremony. My sister Nancy was in too remote a part of Nevada to attend, and I had not invited my brother Samuel, as I was still stung by his abandonment. Our wedding was nevertheless well-attended by Adolphe’s coworkers and my fellow residents. Adolphe had insisted on a newspaper announcement, and though I had stipulated no gifts, my request was ignored and I had to suffer the kindness of our friends.
When Adolphe arrived at the house my breath just about stopped, for he looked as handsome as anyone I’d ever met. He must have engaged his barber that very morning, as his beard was expertly trimmed and combed, his hair parted razor-sharp—a far cry from the harried fiancé I’d seen yesterday making last-minute arrangements. He wore a brocade vest and a formal silk stock tie all the way up to his neck, both newly purchased.
He had brought with him Reverend John Robinson who attended the Methodist congregation near the Chouteau house. Some Southern Methodists had held attitudes about slavery I found distasteful, but I respected Rev. Robinson as a sharp thinker. Adolphe was relieved there was at least one member of the clergy I could tolerate—or, as he put it: “Someone’s got to marry us, it might as well be him.”
Everyone was in a rush to congratulate us, but I approached first my closest friend in the boarding house, one whose company I would enjoy for many years: Alberton Blanchard. Alberton was an age peer of Bernard but a much wiser and kinder young man. He was quite hard of hearing and as a result had a manner of speaking that some struggled with, but as his frequent confidant I always understood him perfectly.
“You look beautiful, Mrs. Möeller,” he said.
The room was loud so I leaned in and spoke directly into his ear trumpet as he had instructed me. “I know I am not yet married, but nothing would make me happier than for you to call me Mrs. Weiss starting this moment.”
“You look beautiful, Mrs. Weiss,” he replied, and gave me an exaggerated bow.
I could not help it—I began to cry. Adolphe clasped my shoulders to steady me. “Reverend Robinson, I think we should begin before my fiancée is too overcome to pledge her eternal devotion to me.”
Adolphe had directed him to omit any mention of “obeying” from our vows, saying, “I assure you we are not promoters of free love, only that I would not ask my wife to pledge that which is against her nature.” I’m told the reverend made a small frown when reciting the alteration, but I did not notice. I wasn’t looking anywhere but at Adolphe. And so we were married, and I was able to scrub that hideous name from my person forever.
We moved in together at a more centrally located boarding house run by the widow Grigsby, which she aspirationally called the Washington Avenue Hotel. Most of the lodgers worked on the river and were rarely about the premises. Bernard did not move with us to the hotel, and Ada soon left the nest for her own future. I felt safe there, but I missed the camaraderie of the Chouteau house.
Chauncey Crosby proposed the morning of Ada’s 18th birthday—the minimum age I would allow—and I admit that was romantic of him, perhaps the only gesture of the heart I ever saw the man make. She loved him, and I had no possible objection to his family: prominent jewelers named Langsworthy from back East. I wearied of their persistent invitations to visit the many things in their village named after them, but as supporters of the young couple they were unimpeachable.
I had little to do for the ceremony itself as the Langworthys sponsored the whole affair. They rented out blocks of rooms at the Belvedere Hotel, close to our residence on Washington Avenue and a genuine hotel of the finest quality. Scores of Langworthys arrived from New York, remarking to each other at every opportunity how brave and adventurous they were to join us here at the “frontier.” Annoyed, I told one wide-eyed ingénue that our family had once subsisted on raw buffalo and that I learned to hunt with a bow and arrow. Fortunately my childish pique did not disrupt the otherwise beautiful wedding of my only daughter.
The next day Ada invited me to enjoy the luxury of their newlywed accommodations at the Belvedere and its legendary luncheon. At the end of our meal, I finally asked her a question I had been afraid to raise: did Chauncey intend for them to remain in St. Louis?
My sweet girl flushed red in shame and looked down at her lap. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, Mama. Chan has been named Vice-President of the Express Company, and we are to move to New York City.”
My heart caught in my throat, but I reminded myself that Adolphe had sailed halfway around the globe as a child—my daughter and her wealthy husband could move East where they would live in comfort. “Well, that will be an adventure, but I am sure Chauncey will arrange everything marvelously.” I took her hands in mine to reassure her I wasn’t upset.
She looked relieved. “And at any rate we will visit often, and with a whole gaggle of children!”
On Sunday evenings it was our custom to attend Adolphe’s weekly Spiritualist meetings, so I was a bit concerned when he did not arrive home in time for our early supper. There was nothing I could do but wait and fret.
When he finally came through the door at close to 9 o’clock, he was completely disheveled, yet still cool as a cucumber. “Zara, forgive me, I was delayed,” was all he said. He removed his coat and began searching about the apartment. “Do you know where I left my whisk brush?”
“Delayed!” He appeared unhurt so I progressed directly from worry to exasperation.
From our bedroom he called back, “I was set upon by a gentleman of erratic temper. Don’t worry, he was arrested.” He strolled back into the sitting room in his shirtsleeves, which were also worse for wear. “As was I.”
“Arrested!” I reached out and grasped his forearm before he could slip away again and pulled him beside me on the settee. “For goodness’ sake, Adolphe, what happened?”
It transpired that he had indeed been thrashed by a man—his tailor, as Adolphe’s considerable bill was months overdue. “That did not give the man cause to insult me!”
“Hmm, did it not?” I asked, inspecting a tear on his cuff. “Will you press charges on him?”
“No, but I ought to; he accused me of spending all my money at beer-halls!”
“Then what did you spend it on if not your garments?”
He did not answer, but I was sure I knew. Adolphe tried to stand up but I gripped him harder. “Did you loan money to Bernard again?”
“Yes,” he admitted.
“He will not pay it back.”
“I know.”
I released him gently. “Your generosity is one of many things I love about you, but my son has to find his own way. And you must square accounts with your tailor because this damage to your cuff is beyond my capability.”
He sighed, his eyes searching my face and then settling, intriguingly, on my mouth. “If it’s what you wish, my love, I will do it all.”