Wilderness Days

by Jennifer L. Holm

  One elegant eyebrow raised slightly. “I see.”

  I rushed to reassure. “But the Chinook women are very kind, and quite a few speak English. They live that way,” I said, pointing at the stream.

  “Chinook? Do you mean Indians?”

  I nodded.

  “I see,” she said again, an inscrutable expression on her face. “And who exactly lives in this cabin?” Mrs. Frink asked, wrinkling her small nose.

  I twisted my hands. For all her stories of the trail, Mrs. Frink seemed a very proper sort of lady. Her gloves were spotless. I imagined she would be horrified to learn that I had been living unchaperoned in a cabin with assorted men these many past months. It would be utterly inappropriate behavior for a respectable young lady under ordinary circumstances.

  I swallowed hard. “Well, myself, and Mr. Russell, and Mr. Swan, and sometimes Keer-ukso, and, and … and sometimes whatever men are passing through,” I finished in an awkward rush.

  She eyed the cabin coolly. “My, but what a luxury to have a proper roof over one’s head,” she said with real longing.

  My mouth fell open.

  “I have been sleeping under the stars or in our wagon for the past six months. The canvas covering our wagon is in a very sad state, I fear.”

  I was taken aback by her candor.

  “Although,” she said, her voice softening, “I must confess to growing accustomed to falling asleep with stars over my head. The most beautiful sight I have ever seen was when I lay on the plains at night, the starry sky stretching above us like a quilt.” She blinked and laughed. “Of course, I was worried to death that Indians would steal our horses.”

  “Did they?”

  “Once, but they let us buy them back.” She eyed the well-worn trail leading away from the cabin. “Shall we meet your neighbors?”

  “Of course,” I said. “Right this way.”

  “So do you think, Miss Peck, that there will be much call for a hotel out here?” she asked in a serious voice, as if she truly valued my opinion.

  “There are many men around here who would be happy for a proper bed and a cooked meal. A hotel might be quite popular, actually. I imagine I’d be the first to stay there. Especially if there were a bathtub.”

  She laughed, a bright tinkly laugh that made me smile. “We are going to be such great friends, Miss Peck. I just know it.”

  We followed the stream down past a small, neat building with a cedar plank roof. A cross jutted from the ceiling.

  “That is Father Joseph’s chapel. He’s a French Catholic missionary. He came on the same boat I did.”

  “Is he having much success spreading the faith?”

  “I’m afraid not,” I said.

  “Poor man.” She grinned at me impishly. “But then again, who likes to be told what to do, even by a man of the cloth?”

  We rounded a bend in the trail and entered the large grassy clearing where the huge cedar lodges of Chief Toke’s village were clustered.

  “Are those the Indians?” Mrs. Frink asked.

  I looked about. Nearby, chopping a pile of firewood with axes, was a group of the men I had hired to harvest the oysters, all wearing identical shirts.

  “Well, yes,” I said.

  “How very interesting,” she said. “I thought they’d be more like the Indians on the trail. But here they are, all dressed up like us!”

  Sootie came running straight at me, chattering happily, and dragging her doll.

  “Boston Jane! Boston Jane!” Sootie yelled. “Is this your sister? She looks just like you, except your hair is prettier. But I like her dress better.”

  Mrs. Frink and I looked at each other in embarrassment.

  “Sootie,” I said, trying to slow the rush of words. “This is Mrs. Frink.”

  “What a charming child!” Mrs. Frink exclaimed. “Is that a doll you have there?”

  Sootie held out her doll for inspection. “Boston Jane made my dolly a new dress,” she informed her importantly.

  “And it’s quite a lovely dress, too,” Mrs. Frink complimented, and I smiled at the woman for her kindness.

  “Sootie is Chief Toke’s daughter,” I said. “He is the chief, or tyee, of this village.”

  “A chief?” Mrs. Frink said, impressed.

  “That’s right!” Sootie said proudly. “Because he is the most rich.”

  “Sootie, do you know where your father is?” I asked.

  She pressed her lips together for a minute and then said, “He is with Mr. Russell and Mr. Swan and some other man. I don’t like Mr. Russell very much,” she informed Mrs. Frink. “And he has a cow that keeps us up all night sometimes.”

  “Was that the gentleman with whom you were milking the cow when I arrived?” Mrs. Frink asked.

  “Yes. He was the first pioneer to come here.” I was preparing to launch into an explanation of Mr. Russell’s business and character when Mr. Swan, Mr. Russell, and a man who I supposed must be Mr. Frink came sauntering over to where we stood.

  “Ah, Jane, there you are. Capital,” Mr. Swan announced.

  “Miss Peck has been very kindly giving me a tour,” Mrs. Frink said, patting the man on his arm. “Miss Peck, may I introduce my husband, Mr. Frink?”

  Mr. Frink, who in distinct contrast to his wife, looked like he had just spent six months on the trail in his worn boots and dirty shirt, shook my hand.

  Mrs. Frink turned her attention to Mr. Russell. “Miss Peck tells me you were the first pioneer in the area, Mr. Russell.”

  “First but not last, ma’am. We’re real pleased to have you here.” To my utter astonishment, Mr. Russell removed his hat and smoothed back his hair. “We don’t get too many ladies out this way.”

  What about me? I was a lady! He had never once, in all my time on Shoalwater Bay, removed his hat because of my presence!

  “We’re very happy to be here,” Mrs. Frink replied with a gay smile.

  “That’s a real pretty dress you’re wearing, if you don’t mind my saying so,” Mr. Russell added, blushing furiously.

  “Why, Miss Peck, you didn’t tell me what a charming man Mr. Russell was,” Mrs. Frink said with a wide smile, extending her arm to him.

  Mr. Russell took it gallantly and led her toward the cabin.

  All I could do was stare.

  CHAPTER SIX

  or,

  The Charming Mrs. Frink

  All at once, the men of Shoalwater Bay found it very important to bathe and wash and generally look presentable.

  They cut their hair. They scrubbed their hands. They brushed their teeth. Even Mr. Russell attempted to shave his straggly beard in order to look more respectable, but he succeeded only in carving his face.

  They vied to spend a moment in Mrs. Frink’s presence. With a simple smile, she had a cabin built. With a downward sweep of her lashes, she had acquired an outhouse. With an upward turn of her lips, her garden was dug.

  It was perfectly astonishing. It was almost as if she were the first lady to arrive on the bay, when I had been here for months and months! The men had never treated me the way they did Mrs. Frink—with a mix of awe and respect and admiration.

  After much worry on my part, I invited the Frinks to supper one late-November day. They had taken up residence in their new cabin, which was situated on a lovely patch of land with a view of the bay. And which, I might add, the men of the settlement had built without having to be bribed with whiskey.

  I spent two days carefully planning the menu. I had learned how to cook while on Shoalwater Bay, but while I regularly cooked for men, I had never cooked for another lady. I was well aware that the men ate anything I put before them, especially Mr. Russell, but I expected that Mrs. Frink would have a more refined palate.

  In the end I settled on roast chicken, biscuits and gravy, and a pie for dessert. Not that it mattered, for the men were far too busy paying attention to Mrs. Frink to compliment me on the excellent meal I had prepared. All they could do was listen to Mrs. Frink’s witty st
ories of her travels west, and by the time I started clearing dishes, the men were hanging on her every word. These men, who belched and spat at every opportunity, somehow managed to contain their belches and not spit once during the entire meal.

  Mrs. Frink was relating a story in which she had stayed up all night to watch the campsite because the men on the wagon train were so exhausted. Her husband, whom I had yet to hear speak, sat quietly at her side, smoking his pipe.

  “My poor Mr. Frink,” Mrs. Frink said, patting her husband’s hand, “had worked the work of four men. Why, he single-handedly pulled our wagon out of a ditch as deep as I am tall! What else could I do but let the perfect man sleep?”

  Mr. Frink just puffed on his pipe.

  “Then what happened?” Mr. Russell asked anxiously, gray whiskers twitching. He had procured a clean shirt from somewhere, although the sleeve already had a gravy stain from where he’d used it as his napkin.

  “Yes, well, that was the time I shot the coyote, of course.”

  “You can shoot?” I asked, aghast. Not only was she a lady, but she could shoot?

  She inclined her head slightly. “I’m a very good shot, Miss Peck. Mr. Frink taught me how to shoot.”

  The men nodded admiringly.

  I remembered with some embarrassment my lone attempt at wielding a rifle. A cougar had been sneaking into the encampment, and I had fired at it and missed. Still, at least it had run off.

  Mr. Russell leaned forward, intent on capturing every word that tripped off her tongue.

  “You see, a coyote snuck into camp and tried to make away with our best piece of bacon. Well, I fired right at the scamp’s tail, and it went yelping off into the night—and that was the last we saw of that coyote!” She gave a little laugh. “That was also the last time I left the bacon out.”

  The men clapped.

  I began clearing away the plates, feeling a little like a maid. Jehu quietly stood up and began gathering plates as well.

  “Oh, do sit down, Mr. Scudder. I shall help, Jane,” Mrs. Frink offered grandly, standing. There was a clatter as, all at once, chairs were shoved back and Mr. Russell, Mr. Swan, Mr. Frink, and Keer-ukso stood. “Miss Peck,” Mrs. Frink tittered, “you are so fortunate to be surrounded by so many gentlemen.”

  The men blushed.

  I shot them all a dark look. Really, no one ever bothered to stand when I got up from the table. I furiously began to carve the pie I had made earlier that day. Mrs. Frink appeared with a covered dish in her hand.

  “I brought my famous crumble cake. Mr. Frink just adores my crumble cake,” she confided. “My clever husband was so smart to bring that iron stove in the wagon.” I just stared at the cake.

  “You’ve been kindness itself, cooking supper for all of us,” she continued, pressing my hand. “Really. It was the least I could do.”

  I didn’t want to appear ungracious. “Well, I suppose we could serve both.”

  Mrs. Frink announced, “For dessert there is a choice of Miss Peck’s pie or my crumble cake.”

  “I’ll take the crumble cake,” Mr. Russell said quickly.

  “For me as well,” Mr. Swan said with a broad smile.

  Mr. Frink merely nodded in assent. I was beginning to wonder if the man had a tongue in his head.

  Jehu’s eyes rested on my face. “I’ll have a piece of pie. Jane makes wonderful pie.”

  Mrs. Frink turned to Keer-ukso. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence and then Keer-ukso said, a little reluctantly, “Pie, too.”

  I smiled at him gratefully.

  Mr. Russell took a hearty bite of Mrs. Frink’s crumble cake and closed his eyes in delight. “This here’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” he said with true fervor, devouring his slice of crumble cake in two quick bites and then holding out his plate for a second helping. “I’d be much obliged if you’d cut me another piece, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Frink bestowed a radiant smile upon him and carved off another piece of cake.

  “Capital cake, my dear woman. Simply marvelous,” Mr. Swan declared in his effusive way, a crumb clinging to his beard. He held out his empty plate to Mrs. Frink for another piece as well.

  Keer-ukso looked with real longing at the famous crumble cake, his pie untouched.

  What about my pie? I wanted to shout. Until now, my pie had been the best thing on Shoalwater Bay. All the men said so!

  Mrs. Frink was perfect! She had the manners of Miss Hepplewhite, and she could shoot a gun like a man and bake a cake better than me! Why, she even spoke perfect French.

  “Madame Frink has read Manon Lescaut in the original,” Father Joseph had told me in an impressed voice. Whatever that was!

  I was terrible at languages and had barely learned how to say “May I have a fresh napkin?” during my Conversational French lessons at Miss Hepplewhite’s Young Ladies Academy.

  I had longed for female companionship, but now that another lady had arrived, I rather wished she’d go back to Ohio.

  Even Brandywine, the useless beast, followed her around. He shamelessly flipped on his back to get her to rub his plump belly.

  Jehu alone seemed immune to her charm.

  “Do you like Mrs. Frink?” I asked Keer-ukso the next day as we sat on the beach in the early morning light. The sun was hiding behind a thick gray sky, and the day perfectly reflected my bad mood.

  He shrugged.

  “Do you know that Mr. Russell offered to build her a chimney? That man never even offered to put up a tent for me! And now he’s going to build her a chimney?”

  “Chimney is no good,” Keer-ukso said. “Swan’s chimney fell down.”

  Keer-ukso had a very poor opinion of chimneys on all account of Mr. Swan’s chimney crashing down during a thunderstorm and almost killing us all.

  “Yes, but that’s not the point. The point is she has all the men scurrying around to help her and do things for her when they would never do anything for me!”

  Keer-ukso looked affronted. “I help Boston Jane.”

  “Yes, I didn’t mean you. I meant the others.”

  He narrowed his eyes at me. “You have sick tumtum.”

  Sick tumtum meant jealous.

  “No, I’m not jealous,” I hedged. “Well, maybe I am, but only a little. It’s just that, that,” I blustered, “I’m a lady, too, but nobody ever treats me like her. Nobody ever built me an outhouse!” I finished in a huff.

  Keer-ukso just shook his head and said, “Sick tumtum.”

  Later that day as I was sitting on a log on the beach trying to stitch some ribbon onto one of my skirts, I pricked my finger and realized that I would never sew a skirt as fashionable as Mrs. Frink’s. No matter how hard I tried, I would never be as good as her. It was almost as if I were back in Philadelphia with Sally Biddle. Except that Mrs. Frink was worse than Sally Biddle, because she was so nice.

  Mr. Swan came tramping over, stick in hand. His cheeks were ruddy from the crisp weather.

  “Hello, my dear,” Mr. Swan said. “Capital day!”

  It was gray and drizzly as usual.

  “Hmmph,” I said.

  “Have you seen Mrs. Frink?” he asked cheerfully.

  “No.”

  “Charming woman, Mrs. Frink. Simply charming!” Mr. Swan mused.

  “Oh, I know. It’s perfectly plain that the entire world thinks she’s charming,” I said, a bitter edge to my voice.

  He looked startled. “My dear?”

  I shook my head and sighed.

  Mr. Swan patted my hand. “We are all very fond of you, my dear.”

  They were all very fond of me? But they adored Mrs. Frink and I was plainly not in the same class as her.

  “I must be off.” Mr. Swan cleared his throat importantly. “Mrs. Frink has asked my opinion on the architectural plans for the hotel, and I have some interesting ideas.” He paused. “Would you like to join me?”

  I shook my head.

  It was so vexing. Mr. Swan was my friend, my business partner. I want
ed to ask why couldn’t he have some interesting ideas about our oyster business, but instead I simply stared at the bay.

  “Ah well, I shall see you later then, my dear,” Mr. Swan said awkwardly, and walked away.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon stalking up and down the beach. The men could fix their own supper for once, I thought angrily, as I walked off my frustration. It would do them good to see how much work I did. They didn’t appreciate me. Why, they barely remembered to thank me! Not to mention, no one ever offered to help clear the table, except, of course, Jehu.

  The sun had sunk behind the mountains when I finally returned to the cabin. I fully expected to be met by a group of angry, hungry men, but instead all that greeted me was silence. The cabin was dark, and the fire had been allowed to burn out. Where had everyone gone?

  And then I heard Brandywine barking. I followed the sound of his barking down the path that led to the Frinks’ cabin. The dog was whining piteously at the door to be let in. Was something wrong? I knocked, and after a moment the door opened.

  “Why hello, Miss Peck!” Mrs. Frink exclaimed in delight.

  I looked past her shoulder, my eyes widening in surprise. Sitting around a table that bore the remains of a roast chicken supper with biscuits and gravy—and mashed potatoes!—were all the men. Mr. Swan was happily tucking away a big piece of Mrs. Frink’s crumble cake, the crumbs clinging to his beard.

  “Do join us, Miss Peck,” Mrs. Frink said graciously, stepping aside, but all I could do was stand there and stare at them. “We were just beginning to worry about you.”

  “Jane,” Jehu said, pushing back his chair.

  But I didn’t wait to speak to him. I turned and ran off into the black night, knowing that I could disappear tomorrow and no one would miss me.

  No one at all.

  The next morning Mrs. Frink appeared in my doorway.

  “Miss Peck,” she began carefully, “would you care to come over to our cabin and have tea this afternoon?”

  I wanted to say no, but all those years at Miss Hepplewhite’s Young Ladies Academy stopped me, and I found myself saying yes and thanking her for the invitation.

  In short order, Mrs. Frink and I were sitting at her table across from each other. Before us sat tin cups of tea poured by her hand and flavored perfectly with milk and sugar. I could not have poured a better cup of tea myself.