“That should work fine,” Elise said, though she and Anne had hoped to extract a good amount of wood and water out of Thomas before then. “We’re grateful to you for your patience, Rebecca. I know you’re tired.” She finished the row she was knitting, turned the beginnings of a sock, and started on the next row. Perhaps a pair of woolen socks would help win Thomas over as well.
“It’s not as though we’re completely helpless,” Anne said with a stubborn lift of her aristocratic chin. “I’m sure Elise could cook fine if she had a stove.”
“Maybe,” Elise said. A stove and a couple of kitchen maids.
“I do believe it may be ready.” Rebecca handed Anne her cooking paddle. “Scrape off the coals, dearie, and make sure you don’t dump any ashes on your gingerbread when you take the lid off.”
“You’re lucky to have enough wood tonight,” Lavinia said.
If you only knew, Elise thought. She’d bargained with Thomas for replacing his buttons, and he’d grudgingly gone for more sticks.
“Yes, we’ll soon have to start gathering buffalo chips, they tell me,” Rebecca said.
“Buffalo chips?” Elise didn’t like the sound of that.
“Is it wood chips?” Anne asked.
Rebecca and Lavinia laughed. “No, my dear, it’s not, but it will burn clean if you get nice, dry ones. They say the buffalo aren’t as plentiful as they used to be, but I expect, since we’re one of the first trains this year, we’ll find enough of their leavings.”
Anne’s mouth skewed. “You mean—oh, I say.”
“Yes, that’s what I mean.” Rebecca passed her a pot holder. “All right, let’s see if your gingerbread is edible.”
“Mr. Whistler says we’ll get to Fort Kearny tomorrow,” Lavinia said on the first day of May, as she and Elise walked along beside the Harknesses’ wagons. “That means we’ll rest a couple of days and do a big washing and visit the trading post and dance in the evening.”
“We’re all looking forward to it,” Elise said. They’d been on the trail more than a month and had come three hundred miles from Independence. Elise was content with the life they now lived, if not always comfortable.
The warm winds already carried the dust stirred up by the wagons. She hadn’t expected that until high summer. The dust sifted into the wagons no matter how tightly they tied the flaps down. Everything bore a coating of dust, and it sometimes blew so thick that they could barely see the wagons ahead of them.
Elise and Anne, along with the other women, had found that walking a few yards off the trail, to the side of the line of wagons, made it easier to breathe. It also afforded them a chance to pick up fuel.
The Harkness family carried a small barrow in one of their wagons. It was up to Lavinia and her younger siblings to fill the barrow twice a day and stow the dried buffalo chips they collected in the family’s third wagon—the one that carried tools and animal feed. Once the two wheelbarrows full were stashed, the children could explore and play, so long as they stayed within calling distance of the wagons.
This afternoon, Anne was having a driving lesson from Thomas, and therefore had the luxury of riding on the wagon seat. Elise and Anne had taken turns over the last few weeks, and both were becoming fair drivers. Elise could now harness a mule in less than five minutes, and she was perhaps inordinately proud of that accomplishment.
“I can’t wait to see what you and Miss Anne wear to the dance.” Lavinia smiled as she trudged along.
“What will you wear?” Elise asked.
Lavinia laughed. “I’ve only this or my brown dress.”
Elise found that tragic—that a girl of seventeen should have such a limited wardrobe. Even though she and Anne had eliminated one trunk back in Independence, they still had an extensive wardrobe stowed in their wagon. She almost opened her mouth to offer Lavinia the use of one of their gowns but stopped. Rebecca might not approve. And would such an act cause problems among the other women of the wagon train? She didn’t want to prompt any jealousies. She and Anne were snubbed already, apparently because their clothes were finer than the others’ and because they had more of them. Even Rebecca, who had befriended them from the beginning, laughed at their continued use of parasols and gloves.
“A woman expects her face and hands to be tanned when she crosses the plains,” Rebecca had said, “and carrying a parasol—well, that just means you’re using your hands to carry something frivolous, instead of to work.”
Elise didn’t see it that way. Safeguarding her mistress’s complexion—and her own of course—was an important part of a lady’s maid’s duties. In England they’d haunted London’s exclusive shops for Lady Anne’s cosmetics, and Elise had prepared lotions and emollients from recipes guarded closely among personal servants.
Out here there was nothing to work with, and she could only hope the cosmetics they’d brought with them would last throughout the journey. As a precaution, she’d picked up a few extra items before they left St. Louis, but she hadn’t been able to obtain the high quality products available in London. If only she’d realized in New York how long their journey would last and that it would take them into the wilderness.
She sighed heavily. No use regretting such things at this point. Instead she would have to make the supplies they had last and find substitutes for those that gave out. Lavinia used lard to keep her lips from cracking. The idea of Lady Anne smearing lard on her lips repelled Elise. She was grateful that she had a good supply of the beeswax and rosewater concoction she and Anne preferred.
“Will you wear one of your Paris gowns?” Lavinia asked. “Miss Anne told me some of her dresses were made there.”
“I expect that would make us complete outcasts,” Elise said.
“Oh no, why should it? We’d all love to see them. I heard you have three trunks bursting with gowns.”
“Mr. Bentley was probably right to advise us to get rid of most of it.”
“As you’ve told me more than once, there’s no telling whom one will meet in Oregon City. Why, even at Fort Kearny there’ll be army officers and their wives, and other folks who are traveling.” Lavinia glanced at Elise’s dress. “Even your calicos that you and Miss Anne bought in Independence are much prettier than what Ma and I have.”
Elise put a hand up to the ribbon at the neckline of her bodice. After hard use on the trail, the dress was showing wear, but she knew Lavinia was right. She and Anne had bought the best quality they could find in Independence—sturdy fabrics with tight stitching, and in cheerful colors. By comparison, some of the emigrant women wore drab, shapeless garments that were heavily mended and wearing thin.
“Here comes Mr. Bentley,” Lavinia said.
Elise kept her head down and refused to follow the natural inclination to look. Eb Bentley had become the bane of her life, second only to Thomas Costigan. Thomas was lazy, she’d concluded weeks ago. He refused to gather chips once they were beyond accessible wood, and he hauled water only if she bullied him mercilessly. That was too tiring. Her attempts at bribing him produced limited results. He still went off with the other single men whenever he got a chance and left the women to their own devices. Usually he showed up for meals, but sometimes he didn’t. Elise concluded that he found sustenance at other campfires on those occasions, though once or twice she was certain their cache of leftovers had been plundered during the confusion of the early morning time when the team was hitched.
Elise had discussed the situation with Anne, but so far they’d kept their suspicions and their difficulties in dealing with Thomas to themselves.
Eb Bentley was another case entirely. He seemed to know everything about traveling overland in the American West, and his very omniscience on the topic annoyed her. Even worse, he seemed to show up just at the moment she exhibited her own ignorance. He’d ridden by on that oddly colored horse yesterday morning as Elise was scraping out yet another burned meal—her attempt at flapjacks for breakfast. He’d shaken his head sadly and moved on without comment, but
the incident had blackened Elise’s day.
Now he rode along on his horse—white with large, reddish-brown spots—inspecting each wagon as he passed. Eb Bentley’s eyes saw everything. If an ox limped even slightly, Eb spoke to the driver. If a strap hung loose on a mule’s harness, he let the owner know. If a wheel squeaked too loudly or a bundle hung precariously on the side of a wagon, Eb brought it to the guilty party’s attention.
Elise supposed that was his duty, and he was good at it. But she always felt like a naughty schoolchild when he came around, because she was sure he’d find several things amiss with the wagon she and Anne owned.
To her horror, he turned aside from the line of wagons and headed toward her and Lavinia.
“Afternoon, ladies.” He tugged at his hat brim.
“Hello, Mr. Bentley,” Lavinia called gaily.
“Good afternoon, sir.” Elise wanted to admire the rugged figure he cut on horseback. His worn clothing—dark trousers and a blue shirt, with a soft leather vest over it, and that droopy, grayish hat he always wore low over his brow—enhanced that image. But she wouldn’t allow herself to admire such a man. It was unthinkable. His long legs hung comfortably against the horse’s sides, ending in well-worn leather boots coated with trail dust.
“You ladies doing all right?”
“Quite well, thank you,” Elise said.
“Don’t forget to drink something every now and again.”
He smiled down at her and Lavinia, and Elise almost gave in. It was hard not to admire a man who stopped to see if you were comfortable, especially one with a smile like that. Eb’s smile rarely saw daylight, but when it did, he very nearly inspired confidence in her. Was that admiration? He was a good man, and he only wanted the best for the people on the wagon train. Of that she was sure. So why did she dislike him?
Was it because he made her feel incompetent? Because she still felt he barely tolerated her presence and Anne’s and was certain they’d fall by the wayside before they crossed the mountains ahead? Or was it because he was so different from David Stone?
That thought alarmed her, and she quickly shoved it down and smothered it. She’d tried not to dwell on thoughts of David these past few weeks. Besides, her reaction to Eb Bentley had nothing to do with her esteem for David Stone.
“We will,” Lavinia said. “Thank you, Mr. Bentley.”
He touched his hat brim again, his gaze lingering on Elise for a moment. She peered up at him from beneath the edge of her silk parasol.
“I’m surprised the wind hasn’t grabbed that little thing away from you.”
It took Elise a moment to realize he was teasing. Was this the frontier version of flirtation?
“I have a death grip on the handle,” she said.
Eb laughed. “Well, if the wind gets to be too much, you might have to start wearing a poke bonnet like Miss Lavinia here.”
Elise raised her chin. The limp, wide-brimmed bonnets the emigrant women had adopted were, in her opinion, the most unbecoming headgear she’d ever seen. Her London-bought chapeaus might be out of place on the plains, but she would never submit to a fashion as ugly as the poke bonnet.
Eb nodded, rather grimly this time. “I suspect you’ve got a death grip on your dignity, too, ma’am.”
He rode off before Elise could think of a suitable retort.
“Of all the nerve,” she said.
Lavinia giggled. “I think Mr. Bentley’s funny. He doesn’t usually say much, but when he does, it’s anything but usual.”
Elise cocked her head to one side and surveyed her young friend. “Lavinia, I expect you’d cause a sensation if you attended an assembly in London.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a social gathering.”
“Hmm.” Lavinia shrugged. “The most social gatherings I’ll ever see will probably be at the forts or the dancing we have when we get to Independence Rock. You and Miss Anne will dance, won’t you?”
“I haven’t given it much thought.”
“If you do, I’ll bet Mr. Bentley will ask you to dance with him.”
Elise stared at her for a moment then turned and looked down the line of wagons again. Eb’s spotted horse was clearly visible—the patches on its rump made it stand out even at a distance. She had danced with gentlemen—even an earl once—at Almack’s Assembly Rooms when she’d accompanied Lady Elizabeth Stone. What would it be like to dance with a man who worked for a living? A wild, western scout like Eb Bentley?
She realized Lavinia was waiting for a response.
“Indeed. We’ll see about that.”
“Yes,” said Lavinia. “I expect we will.”
CHAPTER 15
When the wagons formed their circle that night, the livestock was again turned loose inside. The women would do their cooking and set up their tent just outside the circle. Elise never felt truly secure out there, especially as they were now within Indian Territory, though she’d only seen a few of the native people in the distance. Guards patrolled the camp all night, but even so, she longed for the day they’d used enough mule feed and cornmeal to make space for sleeping in the wagon.
“I’ll be glad when we get to the fort,” Anne said as they got out their dishes and foodstuffs for supper.
“Yes. I’m told they have good grazing there, and the herdsmen can keep the animals away from the wagons.”
“That will be wonderful,” Anne said. “The lowing and snorting keep me awake at night.” She took the pottery bowl from the dish crate. “So…biscuits tonight?”
“I suppose so, and let’s use a can of peaches.” Elise took the tinderbox to the spot they’d decided to have their fire. For once, Thomas had arranged a fire pit without being told. Rocks were scarce on the grassy prairie, so he used the shovel to dig away the grass in a small area. His ministrations didn’t extend to making the fire, so Elise prepared to do that. She headed back to the wagon for some tinder and the sack of buffalo chips she’d gathered earlier.
A sharp scream from Anne made her heart pound.
“What is it?” Elise dashed to the tailboard. “Anne? What happened?”
Anne appeared, white faced, at the canvas flap. “Bugs. Worms.”
“Where?”
“In the flour.”
“Oh.” Elise had hoped they’d avoided that complication by storing their food in tin boxes and small kegs, but apparently not. “Why don’t you make the fire, and I’ll sift them out?”
Anne climbed down shakily, and Elise took over the unpleasant task. The flour keg seemed to be thoroughly infested. Her inclination was to throw out the flour, but in the last month, she’d learned better.
“That’s what we have sifters for,” Rebecca had told her with a shrug. “You can’t keep them out, try as you might, so you sift before you bake.”
So far, Elise’s vigilance had seemed to be working, but that was past. She steeled herself for the chore. If she could only see it as one more task, and not as the removal of vermin from the food she would eat an hour hence, it would help. Even so, her stomach roiled as she peered into the flour keg.
She scooped the bowl half-full of wriggling flour and backed out of the wagon.
“Where’s our sifter?” she called to Anne, who was struggling with the tinderbox.
“I’m not sure we have one.”
“What? Wasn’t it on the list?”
“I looked for one when we first started making biscuits, but I didn’t see one. The flour seemed to work without being sifted, so I didn’t worry about it.”
Elise sighed. “Perhaps I can borrow Rebecca’s.”
“Must we?” Anne asked. “After an entire month on the road, I hate appearing ignorant.”
Elise knew that exact feeling. “Well…do we have something else we could use? Some sort of screen or…”
“Or netting?” Anne asked.
“Yes, that might do, if we stretched it over a bowl. Have we any in the sewing basket?”
“I don’t know.” Anne st
arted to rise.
“No, keep on with the fire. We need that. I’ll go and look for something.”
Eb made his rounds at a leisurely pace. Rob had started in the opposite direction. They would visit each wagon with instructions on getting the water each family needed for the night, and they’d meet halfway around the circle and go back to their campfire spot for supper.
As he approached the Englishwomen’s wagon, he paused for a moment and admired the view. Miss Stone, in her red calico dress, knelt on the turf and was industriously trying to build a campfire. As he watched, she succeeded in getting sparks from the flint and steel she held and blew them gently into a small blaze. These ladies had come a long way since Independence, and he didn’t mean in miles.
Miss Finster, wearing an eye-pleasing plaid dress, sat on a box sifting flour. As Eb watched, he noticed the rather curious apparatus she used and stepped closer so he could see it better.
Miss Finster glanced up as his shadow fell across her work and flinched.
“Mr. Bentley.”
“Good evening, ma’am. That’s quite a fancy sifter you have there.”
She glanced down at the black netting edged with jet beads. It was stretched over the lip of a large bowl, held in place with clothespins.
“Well, yes, we’ve had to improvise.”
“May I ask…?”
She sighed and let her shoulders slump. “It’s the veil off Miss Stone’s mourning hat.”
“Mourning?”
Miss Finster shot a quick glance toward her friend, but Miss Stone was absorbed in building the fire bigger. “Her father died last fall. She put aside her mourning attire when we left England.”
Eb gazed at the dark-haired young woman. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“She didn’t want people to know. But she brought a complete outfit along, in case…well, her uncle…”
Eb nodded. “She’s got spunk.”
“Yes. I’m glad you realize that.” Miss Finster looked up into his eyes, and Eb’s stomach did a somersault.
“You’ve both done well on this undertaking.”
THE Prairie DREAMS Trilogy Page 16
