“Go wash your hands and brush your hair, then come and tell me about your day,” said Mama.
Grace pinched off a tiny bit of dough and popped it into her mouth. Her news couldn’t wait until after a washing. “Mama,” she said, “you’ll never guess what—I’m going to sing at the school-commencement exercises!”
Mama stopped stirring batter now and raised her eyebrows. “Why, fancy that, our little Gracie singing in front of all those people!”
Regina came to take the bowl from Mama’s hands and began dropping spoonfuls of the batter into the boiling stew.
“Mama, please,” Grace protested. “I’m not ‘Little Gracie’ anymore. I’m ten years old.” She leaned against the heavy butcher-block table and went back to her story. “It was because of Amy that I was asked. She told Mr. Inman that I have a beautiful voice.”
“And you certainly do.” Mama waved her flour-covered hand. “Now go do as I said, please.”
Backing away toward the kitchen door, Grace added, “Will you and Papa help me choose the perfect song to sing?”
Mama nodded as she turned to dip her floured hands in a basin of water and wipe them on a linen towel. “We’ll talk at supper,” she said. “Go on now.”
“And after supper we’ll write out the piano order?”
Mama looked up and smiled her warm, kind smile. “That’s exactly what we’re going to do.”
Grace almost slipped and said she’d looked at the Velocipede, but she caught herself in the nick of time. She wasn’t supposed to come home by way of Front Street.
Strolling out of the kitchen, Grace gazed down the hallway at the brand-new parlor Papa had built just last year. When it was finished, Mama had purchased flowered wallpaper at the mercantile store and had it hung, along with heavy dark green drapes. Between the whatnot shelves and the fireplace was the very spot where Grace’s piano would sit. By using her imagination just a bit, she could actually see it sitting there and see herself running her fingers over the keys. She could even see pages and pages of music on the stand.
Halfway up the stairs, she hung out over the balustrade to gaze again at the empty space on the carpet where the piano would be placed. In just a few months it would be there. She could hardly wait!
CHAPTER 3
The Piano Order
The oil lamp made a warm golden glow in the center of the dining table as Mama laid out the quill, ink, sand, and paper. There, too, was the flickering candle to use for sealing wax.
“We’ll work at the table,” Mama said, “so we can sit together. There’s room for only one person at the secretary.”
All the fixings from dinner had been cleared away. Regina had gone home, taking a few of the leftovers with her in her wicker basket. Grace was quite thankful that Regina did not live with them.
Mama spread out the catalog to the page they’d marked. “Now, you’re sure this is the one?” she asked.
Grace nodded, so excited she could barely speak. “I’m sure.” The handsome-looking piano was mahogany and looked every bit as nice as the one at church. Just let cranky Widow Robbins have her old piano, Grace thought. But she would never say such a thing out loud.
Mama picked up the quill to dip in the ink. “May I, Mama? May I write the order?” Mama looked surprised. “Why, I suppose you can.” She handed the quill to Grace. “I’ll read out the words and numbers.”
Writing the order made Grace feel just like a grown woman. Why couldn’t Mama and Papa remember how grown-up she was becoming?
When they were finished, Mama said, “Thad, would you come here a minute? We’re ready for the banknote.”
Grace’s broad-shouldered papa seemed to fill the room when he entered. He pulled out the other cane-bottomed chair and sat down.
“Let’s see here now,” he said, picking up the order. “My, my. Would you look at Gracie’s beautiful penmanship?”
Grace wanted to protest again about being called Gracie, but it seemed easier to say so to Mama than Papa. Papa always looked at her with a merry twinkle in his eye. “Thank you, Papa,” she said instead.
“By the time the leaves turn and the pawpaws are ripe, we’ll have a house filled with music.”
“We already have a house filled with music, Papa,” Grace countered. “Your fiddle does that.”
Papa reached out to gently pat her arm. “Now, I’m trusting that you’ll be making music much more grand than my screechy old fiddle.”
Grace laughed at his joke, but she thought his fiddle music was wonderful.
She watched as Papa’s strong hand took the quill to write out the banknote for a partial payment. Because of Papa’s successful boatbuilding business, he had a great deal of money now in the Branch Bank at Fourth and Vine.
“Lavina,” she’d heard him say to Mama just last week, “when the two steamboats that Luke and I are building now are finished, we’ll be just about as wealthy as Chesman Billings.”
The very thought made Grace gasp. Mrs. Chesman Billings had come to Mama’s sewing circle one time. Grace had never seen such an elegant and stylish dress as this lady of wealth had worn. Mr. Billings’s landholdings in the city of Cincinnati were extensive. Amy’s father also owned several prime lots along Fourth Street. Perhaps one day Grace and Papa and Mama would live in a fine house farther up on the hill.
“Here you go, Gracie,” Papa said, handing her the note. Carefully she folded it inside the order and Mama helped her secure it with sealing wax. On the outside of the paper, she penned the address of the piano factory in New York, carefully wiping the quill when she was finished.
“This occasion calls for a celebration,” Papa said. “How about a song before going to bed?”
Moving to the parlor, Papa took his fiddle down from the special shelf he’d made. After tuning the strings, he struck up a merry tune that he’d learned from a keelboatman. Grace sang all the verses, with Mama and Papa joining in harmony on the chorus:
The boatman is a lucky man,
No one can do as the boatman can,
The boatmen dance and the boatmen sing,
The boatman is up to everything.
Hi-O, away we go,
Floating down the river on the O–hi–o.
Grace rolled up the carpet and danced a jig as she’d seen the swarthy boatmen do. From her favorite spot on the bluff high above where Deer Creek emptied into the Ohio, she often watched the keelboats and the larger heavy barges moving up and down the river. Traveling upstream meant teams of muscular rowers must work the long oars. On top of the low, boxy cabin sat the fiddler, sometimes wearing a slouch hat upon his head and a bright bandanna at his neck. The boatmen rowed to the rhythm of the fiddler’s music. But when the way was easy traveling downstream, the boatmen passed the time dancing jigs. The happy tunes and fancy steps stayed inside Grace’s head.
Mama laughed when they finished the last verse and the final rousing chorus. “When your piano is here, Grace, perhaps our music will consist of something other than boatmen ditties.”
Grace nodded. “I’ll learn church hymns, Mama,” she agreed. “But I’ll always love the happy boatmen songs.”
Later, as Papa opened the big family Bible and read the scriptures, Grace’s thoughts turned to Drew’s problem that day with Raggy Langler. When they prayed, she asked Papa to say a special prayer for Drew to be happy.
Drew sat at the small table in the center of the cabin. Bent over his Latin textbook, he read the words by the flicker of the lamp. Matthew and Adah were at last quietly sleeping on the trundle bed. When the little ones were awake, Drew found concentration impossible.
He tried to read several pages of Latin every evening. Sometimes, if he had the time and the extra paper, he meticulously worked on translations. One time Deanna asked him why he worked so hard on his Latin studies, but Drew found he just couldn’t explain. “I like Latin,” was all he said.
It was as though he owed it to his father and mother. His parents had made sure he had the finest educati
on that Boston could offer; now it was upon him to maintain what he’d received. And it certainly wasn’t going to happen at the crowded school he currently attended.
Once, he’d called it a “charity school” in front of Grace, and she’d become upset. “It is not a charity school,” she protested. “It’s a public school. Papa pays a subscription just like everyone else.”
Drew hadn’t meant to hurt his cousin’s feelings, because he liked Grace. But he knew the amount of subscription was a paltry sum. After all, the concept of the school was to cater to all—even creatures such as Raggy Langler.
Drew’s older brother, Carter, sat across from him, polishing and cleaning his musket and filling the room with the aroma of flaxseed oil. The small cabin seemed to shrink when Carter was there. His very presence loomed over Drew like a shadow. Because Carter had been away from Boston for so many years, Drew barely knew him. They were worlds apart. It was strange, but Drew felt lonelier when his brother was home than he did when he was away.
“Drew,” Deanna said softly, “it’s time you were in bed.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Drew answered politely. Closing his book, he went to the basin near the cabin door, poured a little water from the pitcher, and washed his face and hands. There was lye soap nearby, but he hesitated to use it unless he was really dirty. He felt guilty using the family’s supplies. His older brother had come to Cincinnati with nothing and had worked hard to eke out a living. Even now they had little to spare. Drew felt he was just another mouth to feed.
As Drew moved to the ladder that led to his loft, Deanna came to put her arm about his shoulder. “Sleep well, Drew.”
“Thank you.”
Her touch, which felt so like his mother’s, made hot tears burn in his eyes. He turned away and blinked them back.
Carter said, “Good night, Drew.” But he never looked up from his prized gun.
Back home in Boston, when his parents were still alive, they closed each evening with scripture reading and prayers—but Carter seemed to have forgotten all about God—except to accompany his family to church each Sunday. Pulling off his waist shirt and breeches and pulling on his nightshirt, Drew wondered himself if God were still around.
Lying on his small cot, he stared through the semidarkness at the slanted roof just a few feet above his head. Drew sighed. From beneath his pillow, he brought out the smooth piece of wood that he was carving with his sharp penknife. Father had told Drew many times that he had just the right touch to make a piece of wood come alive.
Now that the days were longer and light came in the small window, he often carved and whittled after going to bed. But tonight he was too tired. Holding up the wood in the shadows of the loft, he smiled. The shape was that of a sleek cod-fishing schooner such as those docked in Boston Harbor. Carving the ship helped him to remember Boston.
Just then, he remembered he was to leave for school earlier the next morning. Climbing out of the bed and moving to the ladder, he called down softly, “Deanna?”
“Yes, Drew?”
“Will you wake me earlier in the morning? I’m to go to the landing with Grace and her father before school.”
“I’ll rouse you,” Carter answered, “when I go out to cut the wood.”
“Thank you,” Drew said and returned to bed. Carter’s words were like a slap. When Drew first arrived in Cincinnati, Carter had asked him to split kindling, but Drew had never swung an ax in his life. Although Drew was more than willing to learn, Carter had no patience to teach him.
“You might get your clothes dirty,” Carter had said.
The comment cut deeply. Drew had no other clothes to wear. While he’d seen many well-dressed men, especially around the business district of Fourth Street, he was dressed differently than most of the other boys.
In the low bureau at the foot of his cot were the portraits of Mother and Father. Father had commissioned them to be painted only a few months before they died. Sometimes Drew allowed himself to take them out and look. But very rarely … and only when he was alone. He never wanted his brave older brother to see him cry.
He had very nearly cried that afternoon when Raggy attacked him. In the darkness, Drew smiled as he remembered the sight of Grace swinging her tin pail with all her might.
While Drew hated having a girl stand up for him, he appreciated Grace’s friendship. He knew she was on his side. She didn’t have to invite him to come to the steamboat with her in the morning. He would have to remember to thank her for her kindness.
Drew was happy that Grace invited him, but he knew being near a steamboat might remind him of the sad journey down the Ohio a few months ago. He’d have to be careful not to cry. Again.
CHAPTER 4
News from the Landing
Alight patter of rain was falling when Grace heard Drew’s knock at the kitchen door the next morning. He was early. She and Mama and Papa hadn’t finished breakfast yet.
Grace left her place at the table to answer his knock. “Come in,” she said. Drew’s solemn face lit up as he smelled the aroma of Mama’s flapjacks.
“Good morning, Drew!” Mama called out. Without asking, Mama fetched another plate from the cupboard. “You might as well have a few flapjacks and a slice of ham while you wait.”
Drew sat down at the table without being asked twice. By the time Grace had gone upstairs to fetch her cloak with the hood, Drew had polished off the plate of food. Grace wondered if he’d had much breakfast at Carter’s house.
She’d heard Luke and Papa talking about Carter. When Carter had first arrived in Cincinnati, he’d worked at the boatworks for a short time but then decided to go out on his own as a tanner. What he didn’t take into account was that there were already more than a dozen tanyards and no need for a new one. He hadn’t done as well as he’d hoped, so Papa had offered to let him come back to the boatworks. Carter had turned down the offer. Papa had told Luke, “Carter is too proud.”
Maybe Carter doesn’t have enough money to feed Drew properly. That thought worried Grace. Carter worked some days at the tanyard. Other days he chopped wood and went hunting in the nearby forests.
She learned these things while sitting on the stair landing, listening to the grown-ups talk.
“Thank you for the breakfast, Aunt Lavina!” Drew called to Mama, as he followed Papa and Grace out the door.
Grace figured there wasn’t a more polite boy than Drew in the whole state of Ohio.
The landing was a busy place. Horses whinnied as they pulled wagons full of boxes, bags, and barrels close to the boat for unloading. Black stevedores shouted to one another and tossed about heavy bags of flour as though they were feather pillows. Several fine carriages, harnessed with smart-stepping horses, were hitched nearby as passengers said good-bye to friends and family in preparation to embark.
Papa was a friend of the captain of the Velocipede, so he strode up the broad gangplank as though he had a ticket to ride all the way to Pittsburg, Pennsylvania. Captain Micah Wharton was down on deck, greeting passengers and overseeing the loading so all was done in an orderly manner.
“Top o’ the morning to you, Thad Morgan!” Captain Wharton called out when he saw Papa. Grace liked the captain’s cheery voice, his ruddy red cheeks, and his broad, thick mustache. “And here’s Gracie, too. To what do I owe this special visit?”
After introducing Drew to the tall captain, Papa explained, “Grace has a letter to go in the mailbag, Captain Wharton.”
The captain raised his bushy eyebrows. “It must be terribly important to be hand-delivered to the captain.”
Grace was bursting to tell. She held up the folded and sealed letter. “It’s my order for a new piano! It’s coming from a factory in New York.”
“Is that a fact?” The captain reached out his large, big-boned hand. “I’ll see to it that it’s delivered safely.” He slipped the order into the pocket of his greatcoat with its shiny brass buttons. Looking wistfully out at the river, he added, “If we don’t get a little
rain, we may not see you again until this time next year.”
Hearing those frightful words, Grace stopped still. But then came Papa’s reassuring voice. “See those clouds?” Papa waved to indicate the overcast skies. “The Lord willing, the spring rains will come. And probably too much, as usual. That’s the way it seems to happen around here.”
Captain Wharton shook his head. “I want to think you’re right, Mr. Morgan, but …” Just then, the captain’s attention was diverted. “Hey there!” he yelled out to a carriage that had just pulled up and blocked the loading area. “Excuse me, folks. I must go see about this.” And he was gone.
Grace turned around to see Drew standing by the deck railing, running his fingers gently over the carved and polished wood. There was that sad look on his face again. Adjusting her tin pail on her arm beneath her long cloak, she went over to stand beside him.
“Do you like steamboats?” she asked.
“I suppose so. That is, I like the way they’re made. Especially the fancy woodwork.”
Papa walked up behind them. “Time for you two to scoot off to school.”
Grace looked up at Papa. “But I wanted to say good morning to Luke since we’re so close. May I, please, Papa?”
Grace’s older brother, Luke, was one of her favorite people in the whole world. When Luke took pretty Camille for his bride, Grace wept. She was jealous of Camille for taking Luke away from her. But now the hurt was almost gone. Sometimes she was allowed to go to Luke and Camille’s new home and stay overnight. That was fun.
Papa was looking at her with a twinkle in his eye. “Only if you promise to stay just a moment, then run on to school. You don’t want to be responsible for making Drew late.”
Following Papa’s long strides down the wide cobblestone landing, Grace looked through the raindrops at the row of tall three- and four-story buildings that lined the landing. Each one was home to a thriving business. She wanted to comment on them to Drew, but she saw he wasn’t noticing them at all. Drew was glancing wistfully back at the steamboat.
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