THE Prairie DREAMS Trilogy

by Susan Page Davis

  Lady Anne’s plainest walking costume was still much more elegant than anything the other women wore. Elise helped her adjust the bodice and skirt.

  “Where’s my hat?” Anne asked.

  Elise hesitated. The hat that matched the costume was very ornate, suitable for a promenade in Hyde Park.

  “I thought perhaps we’d wear bonnets today. You have a lovely blue-and-white one that will shade your face from the sun.”

  “Oh. All right, if you think it best. I don’t suppose I’ll meet any dowagers of the ton today.”

  “My thought precisely. Fashion might not be an asset on the wagon train.”

  Cooking breakfast was an ordeal, especially with Thomas lingering about, looking ravenous.

  Elise cut several slabs of bacon and put them in the cast-iron skillet. It had little legs that allowed her to set it over the fire, but the pan was extremely heavy.

  “I can watch the bacon,” Anne said. “How hard can it be?”

  Elise handed her a long-handled fork. “Just be careful your skirt doesn’t come near the fire.” She got out the cookery book and ingredients for what the Americans called “biscuits.” The biscuits Elise knew were small, shaped sweets, but the waiter in St. Louis had informed her that those were known in this country as “cookies.” Their biscuits were more like round, flaky scones. Prepared well, they were very tasty, and Elise wanted to learn to make what seemed to be a staple of the American diet.

  She read through the recipe, feeling increasingly helpless. Cut lard into flour. How did one do that? With a knife? She could make scones—maybe she’d better stick to those. But there was no recipe for scones in the book, and she didn’t think she could do it from memory. She drew in a deep breath and measured out the flour for a batch of biscuits. From a small keg, she scooped a blob of lard into her pottery bowl with the flour. Next she took a knife and fork and carved at the lard over and over, pressing the small pieces into the flour.

  She was still at it when Rob Whistler came by ten minutes later. He greeted Anne first.

  “Looks like your fire’s getting low, ma’am. Would you like me to add some wood?”

  “Oh, thank you.” Anne stepped aside and watched him work.

  Mr. Whistler lifted the spider off the coals with ease, added three short sticks of wood, then replaced the spider. He stood and brushed off his hands.

  “How are you ladies getting along?”

  “Fine, thank you,” Anne said.

  “Miss Finster?” he asked.

  “I…uh…I’m cooking biscuits.”

  He nodded. “Most of the ladies make a big batch whenever they cook on the trail. That way, you have enough for a cold meal at nooning.”

  “That’s good to know.” Elise looked down at her bowl. “I’m not sure I’m doing this correctly. American cooking seems to be different from English, and so many things go by different names.”

  Whistler smiled. “I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it. And Mrs. Harkness, over yonder”—he pointed across the encampment to where three wagons were drawn close together—“makes fine biscuits. She gave a few to Eb and me last night. I’m sure she’d be happy to give you some pointers.”

  “Thank you.” Elise’s independent streak vied with a rush of relief. Perhaps the other women on the wagon train would offer assistance, and even friendship, to her and Anne.

  “How’s that hired man working out?” Whistler asked.

  “Fine. He brought us firewood this morning.”

  “Well, let me know if you need anything.” Whistler nodded at her and Anne and strode off toward the next wagon.

  “He’s such a nice man,” Anne said. “I think he likes you.”

  “Nonsense,” Elise said. “He’s only trying to enhance our chances of completing the trip successfully in order to save face with Eb Bentley.”

  “Whatever do you mean?” Anne stepped closer, her face troubled.

  “Isn’t it obvious? Mr. Bentley never wanted us along. He’s sure we’ll drop out or at best slow down the caravan. He probably thinks we’ll die along the trail because we’re so inept. Well, I intend to prove him wrong.”

  “Oh, I see.” Anne nodded, still watching Elise’s face.

  Whatever was she hinting at?

  A sudden crackling behind Anne drew Elise’s attention. The flames of the campfire leaped high, and black smoke roiled skyward.

  “Oh! The bacon!” Elise ran to the fire and grabbed the pot holder Anne had left on one of the rocks of their fire ring. When she reached for the spider’s handle, the huge flames drove her back. She lunged in again, grabbed the handle, and tried to drag the heavy spider off the fire. She only succeeded in tipping it.

  Hot grease spilled over onto the flames, and the fire roared higher.

  Someone grabbed her from behind and yanked her back. Elise tumbled to the ground and gasped.

  “You want to catch your clothes on fire?”

  She looked up into the irate face of Eb Bentley.

  Eb stomped on the smoldering edge of the Finster woman’s hem and glared down at her. How ignorant could an obviously intelligent woman possibly be?

  She sat up, patting vaguely at her skirt, and looked from him to the fire pit, where the blaze still roared. Miss Stone stood by staring, her face pale, with one hand clapped to her mouth.

  “I suppose I should thank you,” Miss Finster said doubtfully.

  Eb sighed and offered his hand to help her up. She grasped it firmly and rose, batting at her ridiculous dress.

  “Fires and full skirts don’t mix, ma’am,” he said. “Especially when you throw a pint of grease on the fire.”

  Her eyes blazed. “What do you know about it?”

  “I know how to cook bacon.”

  She huffed out a breath and flounced away from him, toward the fire.

  “I’d let that burn down and then start over,” Eb called after her.

  Miss Stone seemed to have found her wits at last. “Thomas’s breakfast is ruined, and it’s my fault. I suppose we’ll need a new spider.”

  “Nah,” Eb said. “Just take it to the creek and scrub it out good. But don’t try to take it out of the fire until it’s cooled down. And I suggest you give your hired man a cold breakfast this morning.”

  Miss Finster looked over her shoulder at him. “But I have the dough for the scones nearly mixed. Biscuits, that is.”

  Eb shook his head. “Whyn’t you ask Mrs. Harkness yonder if she’ll let you bake them over there? Her fire’s down to coals. I expect they ate breakfast an hour ago.”

  Miss Finster’s cheeks went red. “For your information, that fire was fine until your boss came along a few minutes ago and put more wood on it.”

  “My boss? Oh, you mean Rob?” Eb chuckled. “He’s not my boss. Nobody’s my boss, lady.”

  Her jaw tightened. “I beg your pardon. That should have been obvious.” She marched to the back of the wagon, where she’d set out her cooking things, and began working furiously at some mixture she had in a pottery bowl.

  Eb looked over at Miss Stone and shrugged.

  “Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Bentley,” the young woman said earnestly. “I’m sure that when the shock has passed, Miss Finster will realize how opportune your intervention was.”

  Eb stared at her for a moment and decided she wasn’t poking fun at him. “Think nothing of it, miss. But I would get rid of those high-toned fashions if I were you. Hard enough getting in and out of a wagon in a dress, or so I imagine, but cooking around an open fire—well, you’re just asking for trouble.”

  “Perhaps you’re right. My friend and I will discuss it. Thank you very much.”

  Eb nodded and glanced at Miss Finster. She ignored him as she pored over a cookery book—or maybe the recipe really fascinated her. Eb touched his hat brim in Miss Stone’s direction and ambled on toward the next wagon.

  Daniel Adams, the owner, was loading a wooden box of pans into the back of his rig.

  “Morning, Dan.�
��

  “Hey, Eb. Everything all right with the English ladies?”

  “Oh, yeah. They just don’t have much experience camping.” Eb chatted for a moment then went on to the wagon belonging to Dan’s brother. Hector was seated on a small keg, braiding some strands of twine together. Eb was about to speak to him when he noticed Costigan coming along the path from the creek that flowed into the Missouri River.

  “Hey.”

  Costigan looked toward him and shifted his pail of water to his other hand.

  “Yeah?”

  “Your employers had a scare with their fire. You might want to help the ladies clean up the mess and teach them how to lay a fire that will give them some good coals for cooking.”

  Costigan frowned. “The fire was fine when I left to get the water.”

  “Took you long enough to fetch it,” Eb noted.

  Costigan said nothing but lurched on toward the women’s wagon. Eb wondered how he’d react when he learned the ladies had nothing prepared for him to eat.

  He walked back to where he and Rob had spread their bedrolls the night before. Rob was saddling his horse.

  “Heading into town?” Eb asked.

  “Yeah, there’s always a few last-minute folks who want to join up. I reckon we could take two or three more families. Need anything from town?”

  “Nope. But I wish you’d turned those Englishwomen out.”

  “What do you mean? Throw them off the train? Why?”

  “That Miss Finster almost burnt herself up this morning. If I hadn’t happened along at the right moment, she’d have gone up in flames.”

  Rob frowned. “I was by their camp a little while ago and added a couple of sticks to their fire, but it wasn’t out of control.”

  “Oh, she’s blaming you for the incident. I don’t know what happened for sure, but she managed to tip the spider over and dump the bacon grease on the fire. Her skirt was starting to catch when I grabbed her away.”

  Rob shook his head. “They just need to get their trail legs, so to speak. Good thing you came along.”

  “Ha!” Eb leaned toward his friend. “I almost wish I hadn’t saved her. If she’d burnt herself to a crisp, we wouldn’t have to stop along the way long enough to bury her.”

  “You don’t mean that.” Rob looked rather shocked at his bald statement.

  Eb rubbed the back of his neck. “No, of course I don’t. But, Rob, you’ve got to tell them they can’t go.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “They’re…they’re…Oh, you know! They’re ladies.”

  Rob laughed. “Is that the worst thing you can say about them?”

  “You know what I mean. They’re the sort of ladies who haven’t a notion of how to do for themselves. That means trouble on a wagon train. Sooner or later—and probably sooner—there’s going to be an accident, and someone’s going to get hurt.”

  “Settle down. I’ll ask Mrs. Harkness to stop by and see if she can help them with their cooking setup. Miss Finster and Miss Stone could have stayed at the hotel until Sunday, Eb, but they didn’t. They want to learn how to live out of a wagon before they hit the trail, and I have to admire them for that. They’re trying.”

  Eb slapped his hat against his thigh. “Oh, they’re trying, all right. Trying my patience.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Mrs. Harkness looked up from her sewing as Elise and Anne approached the large family’s encampment.

  “Well, hello, ladies! I was thinking of coming over to meet you later. I’m Rebecca.” She stuck her needle into her project and rose from the rocking chair that sat on the ground beside one of the wagons.

  Elise introduced herself and Anne. “We wondered if you might be willing to help us….” She stopped, embarrassed to admit their shortcomings. “Well, you see, neither one of us has ever had much instruction on cooking, particularly over an open fire.”

  Mrs. Harkness eyed her dubiously. “Surely you ladies have baked bread before?”

  “Actually, we haven’t.”

  The older woman made a tsk sound. “Your mothers didn’t teach you?”

  Elise felt her cheeks flush. “Miss Stone’s mother died several years ago, and I…well, I began earning my living when I was quite young, and cooking was not one of my duties.”

  “Oh my.”

  “I can do passably well on a stove,” Elise added hastily. “Basic meals and refreshments. But this is a new experience, working over the open flames and having a hungry hired man to feed. We thought you might be able to share your knowledge with us.”

  “I’d be happy to. Would you like me to come over to your wagon? It might be best if you learned using your own dishes and such.”

  “That sounds reasonable,” Elise said.

  “And most kind of you,” Anne added.

  Rebecca’s cordial reception encouraged Elise, and she was able to overlook any differences between them. Fashion and “station” didn’t matter as they went about the task of preparing a cook fire for baking.

  Only an hour had passed since Eb Bentley had jerked her so rudely away from her fireside. Elise was still angry at him, though the sight of her singed hem had tempered her ire. That dress was ruined—unless she decided to shorten it. She had put it away in her trunk, out of sight until she had time to think about it.

  First Mrs. Harkness showed them how to mix a simple batter for cornbread, or “johnnycake” as she called it. That was easier and quicker to prepare than biscuits, she pointed out. The ladies could always fall back on it when time was short, though it took an egg. Elise assured her they had several dozen among their stores, preserved in lard.

  Baking the johnnycake in the dutch oven over the coals proved to be tricky. Mrs. Harkness had mastered the process from forty years or so of practice. She showed Elise and Anne how to situate the cast-iron pot on a bed of coals and then shovel more coals on top of the lid.

  “But how do you know when the coals are ready—not too hot, but still hot enough?” Anne asked.

  “They just look right,” Rebecca said with a frown. “Dear me, I don’t know.”

  They left the johnnycake to bake slowly while she showed them how to prepare passable biscuit dough. Anne insisted on learning, too. Elise was gratified to see that for the most part, she’d made her dough correctly. Their teacher pointed out that biscuits had the advantage of not needing eggs.

  Again, the baking was the difficult part. They’d made four batches before Mrs. Harkness pronounced them “proper” biscuits. Elise was going to throw out the first three batches, but Mrs. Harkness protested.

  “You’re going to throw them away? That’s scandalous! Even the ones you blackened, the oxen will eat. And I daresay that hired man of yours can stomach the others.”

  When they were alone, Elise and Anne agreed to give Thomas the best biscuits and eat the trial batches themselves. It was a type of frontier penance, Elise supposed. And as Mrs. Harkness had reminded them, “Waste not, want not.”

  They parted cheerfully at the end of the lesson, and Rebecca offered to send her “big girl,” Lavinia, over in the morning if they needed help at breakfast time, but Elise was now so confident that she was certain they wouldn’t need Lavinia’s assistance. And she most assuredly would not need Eb Bentley’s aid.

  On Saturday morning, Elise awoke while it was still dark. She lay in the tent listening for sounds of activity. Soon she caught faint rustles and a thud as one of the Adams brothers lowered the hinged back of his wagon. She sat up and groped for the clothing she’d carefully set out the night before, close at hand so she could find it easily. The dress was one of her plainer ones. She’d spent the previous afternoon taking in the skirt and shortening the hem so that she could wear it without hoops and full underskirts and yet not have it dragging on the ground. Even so, it hung longer than most of the emigrant women wore their dresses.

  She emerged from the tent to the first birdcalls of dawn. Already wood smoke hung in the air. The glow of four campfires was vis
ible from where she stood.

  It’s simply a matter of adapting to the schedule, she told herself. Breakfast at daybreak, bedtime at sundown or shortly after. She could make that adjustment and thrive on it.

  Poor Anne found everything about the trip more daunting than Elise did. Elise felt they could overcome each difficulty, one task at a time. But for Anne, life in the encampment was completely foreign. Tending the fire, preparing meals, keeping their clothing clean and in good repair, not to mention the dirt, the smoke, and the drudgery of it all—these were things she’d never been asked to deal with before. Servants performed the menial labor, and her family and Elise had shrouded her from all unpleasantness. She’d put on a brave front during their entire trip, but at several points yesterday, Elise could tell she was on the verge of tears. Perhaps she was reconsidering her decision to find her uncle, no matter how hard the quest.

  But just as Anne started to realize the sheer enormity of their undertaking, Elise began to revel in it. They would have to make changes. They must cast aside many assumptions and embrace the more casual ways of America—in short, the freedom. If they could do that, they could enjoy this new life. She would try to help Anne come to that point of view. Giving up the journey now was unthinkable.

  In the gray morning light, Elise hurried to the wagon and took out the box she’d stocked the evening before with the utensils she would need for making breakfast, as well as the leftover biscuits they’d deemed edible. She resolved to cook bacon this morning without burning it or spilling the grease into the fire, and to fry a few eggs for Thomas out of those the storekeeper had packed so carefully for them a few days back. She hoped the eggs would mollify Thomas enough that he wouldn’t notice their biscuits’ imperfections.

  As she stirred the ashes of last night’s fire, she wondered how she would ever get the blaze going. Mrs. Harkness had told her to cover the live coals with ashes at night, to “bank” the fire. Elise had done that, but now there seemed to be only a few tiny orange coals left in the mess. She took a couple of sticks off the wood pile, but she didn’t think they’d catch from the meager embers. She wished she had some paper to burn.