For a fleeting moment, his brown eyes delved into hers, making her feel as if he could peer into her very soul and know exactly what she was about and what she was thinking. He smiled politely and touched a finger to the brim of his hat. “Then good day, ma’am.”
“Good day, sir.” She went on her way. Feeling his eyes on her, she forced herself to walk at a leisurely pace and not, as she was sorely tempted, to run as fast as she could to get to her wagon and out of his sight.
* * *
Rooted to the spot, Clint observed Lucy Schneider. He liked the way she walked—tall and straight, with a lightness of foot few women possessed. She was pregnant. What a shame. The trek to California was hard enough as it was, but for a woman with child it was a tortuous journey. He could never understand why many of the husbands didn’t seem concerned. Despite all the difficulties of pregnancy, they expected their wives to endure the hardships of the trail and work their full share. He’d wager Lucy’s husband was one of those.
So, Jacob Schneider had changed his mind, had he? What bullshit. The one time they’d talked, that jackass had outright told him he and his brother would be heading for California, soon as the farm was sold. Apparently, he hadn’t bothered to tell his wife.
Clint vented his disgust by kicking the dirt with the point of his boot. They’d had only the one conversation, but that was enough for him to peg Jacob Schneider as a poor excuse for a man. His brother, too. Cold and rigid in their thinking. Real pains in the ass and likely to be hard to deal with on the trail. If they didn’t cause trouble before they reached California, he’d be greatly surprised.
* * *
Stopping by Abner’s wagon, Lucy found Martha bending over a large laundry tub, her reddened hands scrubbing clothes on a board. “We’re invited to a high tea this afternoon,” Lucy said. “It should be fun. I’m going, and I hope you will, too.”
Her sister-in-law looked up from her task and frowned. “Thank you, but I have too much to do.”
Just the answer Lucy expected. “Nonsense. This is a fine opportunity to meet the women we’ll be traveling with for the next few months. Surely Abner wouldn’t mind.”
Martha used her forearm to wipe the perspiration from her brow. “I’m not so sure. Abner wants this wash done. You know how he is.”
Indeed I do know. Poor Martha always invited pity with her soft, timid voice and frail, stoop-shouldered figure. Her large gray eyes seemed to plead forgiveness for merely being alive. Perhaps if Martha had children she might think more highly of herself. Then again, perhaps not. Even a woman with iron resolve would have a hard time standing up to Abner’s constant criticism and stern rule.
“I’m sorry you can’t go. If you change your mind, let me know.” Lucy turned to leave, but to her surprise, Martha called softly, “Wait a minute. I have something to tell you.”
Lucy turned back. “What is it?”
“It’s just ... it’s ...” Suddenly Martha’s cheeks flushed a rosy pink. “I think, I think ...”
The truth dawned on Lucy immediately. “Are you expecting?” There could be no other cause for such a blush on Martha’s sallow cheeks.
“I ... think so!”
“Why, that’s wonderful news!” Lucy threw her arms around her sister-in-law and gave her an exuberant hug. “Have you told Abner?”
Martha’s blush deepened. “Not yet. I wanted to make sure, and now ... well, it’s been two months since I ... you know what I mean, so I’m almost sure.”
“He’ll be delighted.” True enough. Abner would be delighted all right, but just like Jacob, he’d still expect Martha to do her share of the work, and no excuses. That was too bad. Even under normal conditions, frail little Martha might have problems with a pregnancy. Lucy hated to think what could happen to her, considering the hardships of the trail.
* * *
So this was high tea in Independence, Missouri!
Lucy suppressed a giggle as she recalled the many elegant teas she’d presided over in her fancy parlor on Beacon Hill. Now here she sat on an overturned barrel beside a muddy street, holding her own tin cup, beside the covered wagon of that former scion of Atlanta society, Mrs. Nathaniel Beauregard Benton. A handsome woman in her early forties with a narrow face and aristocratic nose, Mrs. Benton showed her slender figure to great advantage in an elegant dress of blue silk taffeta over a hoopskirt. Quite a contrast to her guests who had all left their hoopskirts behind, if they’d ever owned one in the first place. Instead, every other woman there wore a plain, long calico or wool dress, laced-up boots, and starched apron.
Upon meeting Lucy, Mrs. Benton exclaimed in a thick southern accent, “So you’re from Boston? Beacon Hill? Do tell!” Her manner instantly grew warmer. “You must call me Cordelia. I declare, we have lots in common.”
No, we don’t. Lucy instantly recognized the woman as just another Pernelia, only with a southern accent—all soft and cloying on the outside, hard as granite on the inside. A snob besides. She suspected she’d soon be avoiding Mrs. Nathaniel Beauregard Benton. How could she? At home it was easy to avoid those she didn’t care for, but on the trail? Impossible. On second thought, she’d better make a special effort to get along with everybody whether she liked them or not.
Lucy sat quiet for the most part, observing the approximately twenty women who sat in a circle on an assortment of boxes, crates, and barrels. Each held her cup of tea, poured by Mrs. Benton from her solid silver teapot. Each held a pastry, freshly baked by a young Negro woman named Sukey, whom Mrs. Benton referred to as her slave. Lucy wondered how it was possible to own a slave while traveling on a wagon train headed west. Wasn’t this free territory? But now was hardly the time to ask.
So these were some of the women she’d spend the next few months with. Quite a variety. They included Bessie Potts and Hannah Richards, both from Possum Creek, Tennessee. One would never guess they were sisters, what with small, nervous Bessie constantly expressing her fears and tall, raw-boned Hannah coming across as fearless and unflappable. Both were pleasant and friendly, though, compared to a middle-aged, dour-face woman named Agnes Applegate. She, her husband, William, and their six children came from Pennsylvania. She talked a lot but had yet to utter a positive word about anything. Then there was Inez Helmick, a plumpish blond-haired woman in her forties with a broad, Scandinavian face. She, her husband, Stanley, and their five children came from Ohio. “My husband is a preacher, and I’m a midwife.” She had an air of great confidence. “In case any of you might need me on the trail.”
“Well, ain’t that a comfort to know. I just might be needing you.” Bessie glanced at Lucy. “And others, too.”
Oh, no. She could think of nothing worse than having her baby in a wagon in the middle of nowhere. But she needn’t worry. They’d be in California long before the baby arrived.
“I’m serving oolong tea today.” Cordelia seated herself on a box, carefully spreading her taffeta skirt around her. “My favorite. Imported direct from China. Mister Benton made sure we brought enough to last the entire journey.” She nodded toward her elaborate sterling silver tea set and the silver tray of pastries, both precariously balanced on a makeshift table. “I plan to serve tea every day of our journey. After all, one must continue to observe the niceties.”
Hannah Richards gave an audible sniff. “Well, I sure don’t know about that.”
Cordelia’s ever-present smile tightened. “Why might that be?”
“Ain’t you heard of the poor folks who’ve gone ahead of us on other wagon trains? Many’s the time when they run out of food and water, and the poor oxen are dead or about to die, they have to dump all their precious things along the wayside just to lighten the load.”
Cordelia glared at Hannah with reproachful eyes. “Throw away Grandmother Benton’s precious tea set? And her French Haviland china it took me a whole day to pack? That’s not likely to happen.”
“Well, I surely hope not.” Hannah took up the tin cup that held her tea and raised it high
. “Ladies, here’s to a safe journey. May we not be kidnapped or worse by them pesky Indians. May we not get drowned in some river, nor any of our loved ones. May we find food for ourselves and grass for the animals and water for all, so we don’t have to toss our precious possessions over the side.”
“Amen to that.” Lucy raised her cup, as did all of the women, with the exception of Agnes, who sat with her arms crossed and a dour expression on her sallow face.
“You all act like you’re happy to be here,” said Agnes.
No one spoke until someone murmured, “Well, indeed we are.”
Agnes returned a disdainful sniff. “If truth be told, there’s not a one of you wanted to come on this foolish journey in the first place. ‘T’was all your husband’s idea, now wasn’t it? I’d wager every last one of you was happy and content where you were until your man got bit by the gold bug. Now he wants to go to California and get rich.” Agnes glowered, her hazel eyes darting from one to another. “Well now, am I wrong? If anyone here was just dying to live in a flimsy wagon for months and months, and risk death and God-knows-what, then speak up.”
The silence spoke for all. Faced with the truth, even Lucy, who usually rose to the occasion, could think of nothing diplomatic to say. Finally Cordelia, her southern accent extra thick, said, “Mrs. Applegate, I find your remark a bit harsh. Don’t our husbands always know best? You seem to have forgotten a wife’s role is to obey her husband and follow his lead with good grace.”
All except Lucy and Hannah nodded in agreement, appearing relieved that Cordelia had provided an acceptable answer to Agnes’ tirade. Lucy wondered why she herself wasn’t instantly agreeing. After all, she was just like the rest, subject to her husband’s commands. As Cordelia pointed out, a woman’s lot in life was to obey her husband. She didn’t have to like it, though. A thought struck her, one she’d never had before: she most definitely did not like it. Much as she loved Jacob and accepted his leadership, she felt an ever-deepening resentment that she was required to obey him. Despite her wedding vows, she really didn’t want to obey anybody.
Hannah spoke up. “Just out of curiosity, what possessed your husband to head west? Looks to me like you had a good life going in Atlanta.”
Cordelia awarded Hannah an indulgent smile. “It has to do with manifest destiny, Mrs. Richards. You might not understand.”
“I may be poor, but I ain’t stupid.”
Visibly taken aback, Cordelia recovered quickly. “My husband was a noted historian back in Atlanta—”
“I’ll tell them.” A slight, beardless man of fifty or so stepped into the circle. Well groomed, dressed like a country gentleman, he had the dreamy-eyed look of a scholar.
Cordelia regarded him with pride. “My husband, ladies. Nathaniel Beauregard Benton.”
After a greeting, Nathaniel Benton addressed the circle. “For years I’ve studied the history of The United States and what its expansion implies. Why am I going west? I believe Thoreau said it best: ‘Eastward I go only by force, but we go westward as into the future, with a spirit of enterprise and adventure.’ ” Nathaniel’s face lit up. “Not only that, we must claim what is ours. I know in my heart that the land from Atlantic to Pacific should belong to us, not foreign nations such as Great Britain and Mexico who are already meddling in California and Texas.”
“My stars!” said Bessie, “I never thought of The United States spreading all the way from one ocean to the other.”
“It’s going to happen. It’s our manifest destiny.” Nathaniel Benton had a faraway look in his eyes. “We Americans are especially prone to setting out for the unknown. Like Mark Twain said, ‘It’s a human instinct like the need to love, or to taste spring air and believe again that life is not a dead end after all.’ ” He stopped and smiled. “That’s why we’re going to California.”
“Well put, sir.” Lucy put down her cup and started to applaud. They all joined in.
Benton returned a smile. “Well, then, ladies, I won’t further interrupt your tea.” With a courteous bow he walked away.
Cordelia reached for the silver tray. She held it out to Bessie and said with a sugary smile, “Another pastry?”
Bessie declined. “Well, land’s sake, I don’t know about manifest destiny. All I want is to get to California in one piece and find us a piece of land.”
Cordelia smiled indulgently. “You’re fearful of the journey, I know, but don’t forget we have Mister Palance and Mister Dawes to guide us, and they’re the very best. I’m not the least bit worried. Nothing will go wrong while they’re around.”
Every woman present except Lucy nodded her enthusiastic assent. Agnes noticed and focused sharp eyes upon her. “You don’t agree?” Before Lucy could answer, Agnes continued, “I saw you talking to Mister Palance in the square. Do you know him from someplace? You appear to be good friends.”
Lucy immediately caught the implication of wrong-doing in Agnes’ voice. How ridiculous. Her entire conversation with Clint could not have lasted more than a minute or two, so how much could the sharp-eyed woman know of her private feelings? Yet ... she and Clint Palance had not exchanged one improper word, but with uncanny intuition, Agnes sensed that a vague current of attraction, or whatever it was, passed between them. Well from now on she’d be extra careful. If she didn’t put the trapper completely out of her thoughts, that sharp-eyed woman was going to know.
Lucy smiled pleasantly. “I have barely met the man. My husband knows him far better than I.”
The disagreeable woman gave a skeptical sniff but had the decency to change the subject. “We leave in three days. Did you know that? I hope your husband will have his wagons fitted and ready.”
“Jacob will do whatever needs to be done, and on time,” Lucy replied firmly.
A chubby, fair-skinned boy of about twelve or thirteen with a shock of straight blond hair hanging over one eye suddenly burst into the circle. “What’s to eat?”
Cordelia’s face took on a glow of motherly pride. “Ladies, this is my son, Chadwick.”
The boy acknowledged no one. Spying the pastries, he headed straight for the silver tray.
“Now, dear, only one,” his mother called.
Chadwick acknowledged his mother’s advice with a pig-like grunt. He stuffed a pastry into his mouth and scooped up as many more as his chubby little hands could handle.
Cordelia reacted with a merry peal of laughter. “You bad boy! Now, sweetheart, you’d better put those back. You don’t want to eat too many or you’ll spoil your supper.”
After another grunt, Chadwick sped away, hands still full of pastries.
“Boys will be boys.” Cordelia seemed not the least bit upset over her son’s poor manners.
The entire assemblage of ladies had witnessed the episode in polite silence. Now, discreetly lifted eyebrows signaled messages of disapproval. “Did you see that child’s behavior?” Bessie whispered. “If one of mine acted like that, John would have him behind the woodshed in no time.”
Lucy silently agreed. If her little brothers had acted in such a manner ... But then, they never had because they’d been raised properly. Poor Cordelia. She was going to have her hands full on a journey like this with a child so thoroughly spoiled.
* * *
When the tea party ended, Cordelia took Lucy aside. “I’m so delighted you’re coming along. What a comfort to find someone of my own kind.” She lowered her voice. “I’m sure you’ll agree to the difficulty of having to deal with those of a lesser standing, but we’ll manage, won’t we?”
Lucy bristled inside. She hoped it didn’t show. “Of a lesser standing? I don’t know what you mean. Aren’t we all of equal standing here?”
“Yes, of course. You know what I mean. Good breeding is good breeding.”
Lucy sensed how useless it would be to argue with someone as condescending as Cordelia. She’d never change. “I must be going. Thank you for the lovely tea.” She turned away. If she hurried, she could catch up with Bessie
and Hannah. They might be “of a lesser standing,” but she already knew who her true friends would be on the long journey ahead.
When Lucy returned to their wagon, she found Jacob with his coat, shirt, and hat off, bending over a basin washing his face. When he saw her, he straightened and grabbed a towel. Wiping water from his face, he broke into a rare smile. “The men of the council had a meeting. John Potts has not been well and has stepped down. I’ve been elected the new wagon train captain.”
“Why, that’s wonderful news.”
“I wonder why they didn’t pick Abner. Of course, he would’ve declined. His mind runs on a higher plain. It’s best he remain our spiritual leader.”
Lucy could’ve told her husband she knew very well why Abner hadn’t been chosen. The men didn’t like him and made fun of his holier-than-thou attitude behind his back. Some things were best left unsaid, though. “Well, they couldn’t have made a better choice for a captain than you.” Her heart swelled with pride as she looked up at her husband, so handsome with those strong arms, that muscular chest, and those golden curls glinting in the sunshine atop his noble head. I do love him. She regretted that lately she’d begun to find fault. His constantly serious demeanor had grown more annoying, as well as his increased fondness for quoting of the scriptures—just like his brother. Too much like his brother. Then there was the thing that happened at night after they went to bed. She had hoped the lack of privacy on the road would give her a respite from performing the one wifely duty she’d grown to detest, but she wasn’t that fortunate. On the trip to Independence, when they stopped at night, Jacob pitched a tent beside the wagon, which only the two of them occupied. On the few nights they slept in the wagon, Jacob hung a blanket across the middle, between their bed and little Noah’s. As if a flimsy blanket could conceal the rocking and muffle the sounds! She could only pray her mightiest that Noah remained sound asleep each time.
Heartbreak Trail Page 4
