I told him the whole story of my sea journey, William Baldt, and the more recent news of Papa’s death that had left me stranded here.
Mr. Black’s eyes narrowed and he stared into the fire. When he looked back, he had an intense expression in his eyes. “It’s always the people closest to you who betray you.” Then he seemed to shake himself and stood up. “I believe I’ll turn in now. I pitched my tent down past the stream.”
I hesitated. “There are mountain cougars in the area.”
Mr. Black laughed grimly. “I can manage a few wild beasts, Miss Peck. It’s the two-legged variety you have to watch out for.”
Then he tipped his hat gallantly and disappeared into the dark night.
I closed the door and went back into the cabin. Mr. Black’s piece of pie lay untouched.
Brandywine gave a low whine from the corner.
“Maybe he doesn’t care for pie, Brandywine,” I said. I looked at his plate from supper. “Or biscuits and gravy.”
I set the plate of pie on the floor and the dog bounded over, belly swinging, and began to eat enthusiastically.
“At least someone appreciates my cooking,” I said with a sigh.
I woke before dawn, eager to make a nice, hearty breakfast for Mr. Black. I grabbed the coffeepot and headed to the stream that ran alongside the encampment.
It was chilly and still quite dark out, with light just glimmering in the sky. Thick fog hung in the air, and here and there stray shafts of light broke through. Burton was mooing loudly to be milked. She could wait, I decided, until I had the coffee boiling. I stepped carefully in the direction of the stream—the fog so thick it swirled and eddied all around me—and then froze at the sight that met my eyes.
Mr. Black was standing at the stream with his trousers on, suspenders hanging down, his back bare.
He was holding a small mirror and razor and carefully shaving his cheeks. I gasped.
The pale skin of his back was crisscrossed with thick, angry scars, as if someone had taken a whip to him. Or worse.
Mr. Black whirled around, eyes searching, but I stepped quickly behind a tree, my heart beating fast. After a moment, he returned to his shaving, and I carefully made my way back to the cabin, my mind whirling. What had happened to the poor, kind man?
I was still trembling a bit when I heard a soft knock at the door. It was Mr. Black, holding a pail of milk.
“Oh really,” I said, pasting on a bright smile. “You shouldn’t have.”
He smiled. “Now Miss Peck, course I should.”
“Would you like some breakfast?”
He shook his head, looking up at the brightening sky. “’Fraid not, ma’am. I think there’s a storm brewing, so I best get ahead of it.”
“You’re leaving already?”
He nodded.
“Wait,” I said, and rushed back into the cabin. I took an empty flour sack and wrapped the biscuits from the evening before, and the rest of the pie, and put them both into the sack.“Traveling’s hungry work.”
“Thank you so much, Miss Peck.”
“It was my pleasure,” I said.
He pressed something cold into my hand. I looked down to see the gold watch.
“Seems to me, even with the loss of your father, Philadelphia’s still your home. This’ll pay for you to get to San Francisco. The schooner that brought me will be heading back there tomorrow,” he said seriously. “You can catch another ship when you get there.”
“Mr. Black, I can’t take this—”
He closed my fingers shut over the watch. “You just think about it,” he said in a gentle voice.
And then he climbed on his waiting horse and disappeared into the dawn.
Later that morning as I was putting the finishing touches on Sootie’s new doll—a handkerchief dress—the little girl came bursting into Mr. Russell’s cabin.
“Look, Boston Jane!” she shrieked happily.
She was holding an exquisite china doll. It had a creamy face, pink cheeks, and glossy black hair that matched Sootie’s own thick locks. The doll was wearing a pink satin dress with bows and a little ermine stole.
“Sootie,” I asked carefully. “Where did you get that doll?”
“Mrs. Frink!”
At that moment Mrs. Frink walked into the cabin. “Hello, Miss Peck,” she said cheerily.
Something in me went still.
“How do you like Sootie’s new doll? The poor dear was quite beside herself with that dog eating her old one, and why, I just had to do something,” Mrs. Frink declared breezily.
Sootie clutched the china baby rapturously.
I looked at the rag doll in my hands, at the floursack face and button nose, the bark hair and handkerchief dress. It was so sad-looking compared to the exquisite china doll. A flush of embarrassment rushed through me.
“What do you have there?” Mrs. Frink asked curiously.
I turned away from her, bunching the doll in my apron, a sense of desolation stealing over me. There was no place for me here. This wasn’t my home; it never had been.
“Nothing,” I whispered dully. “Nothing at all.”
By the end of the day, I had booked passage on the schooner to San Francisco.
CHAPTER NINE
or,
A Startling Announcement
For all the time I had spent on the bay, I had precious little to pack.
In short order, all that was left to do was bid my good-byes. I had no idea when Mr. Swan and Mr. Russell would be back, and I wondered if they would even notice I was gone, now that they had Mrs. Frink to cook them chicken suppers and bake crumble cake.
The evening before my departure, I lay awake a long time, watching the flickering fire, with the quiet punctuated by the sounds of Brandywine’s restless sleep. He twitched and squirmed, emitting little gruff barks from his throat every now and then, lost in some doggy dream. From a distance came the occasional shouts of voices rising and falling as men finished card games. I tried to comfort myself with the idea that in a few months’ time I would be sleeping in a soft bed instead of on a hard, flea-infested bunk, and bathing in a proper tub instead of in a cold stream. There would be clean dresses, and linen sheets, and sweet soap.
And Sally Biddle.
I winced just imagining how she would view my disgraceful situation.
“Just as I predicted,” she would say smugly. “I knew Dr. Baldt would come to his senses the moment you stepped off the boat. After all, who would want to marry a girl like you?”
But at least in Philadelphia there were people who could help me. I would visit Papa’s solicitor, and he would arrange things. And Mrs. Parker would give me good advice. Why, I could even go back to my old school, the Young Ladies Academy, and assist my teacher, Miss Hepplewhite. After all, I had always received high marks. She would also be invaluable in introducing me into society. The situation was not so dire, I told myself.
Brandywine pressed his nose against my foot, burrowing closer for warmth. It would be winter soon, but I would not see it. I would never see another season on Shoalwater Bay. Never watch the sun melt into the water like sugar dissolving into tea. Never again feel the air grow soft, everything so still that you could practically hear your heart beat.
I shook myself and rolled over, dislodging Brandywine. The beast whined and settled himself against me more firmly. I should be happy to go home, I told myself. I would never have to wash another filthy shirt, cook another unappreciated meal, or milk another ill-tempered cow. I would never have to be disappointed by men who drank too much and gambled away a fortune.
I would be a world away from them all.
The sound of a fiddle hummed insistently in my head.
I was spinning beneath a starry sky, the music rising around me like a whirlwind, the flames of a bonfire licking high into the night. All around me pioneer men swung women about in time to the music. Warm hands clasped my waist, and I looked, and there was Jehu, smiling down at me. Relief surged through me
at the familiar sight of his scar, shining bright as a talisman. I felt relief, and something else, something that made my stomach twist in giddy anticipation, and made me lightheaded.
“I’m so happy you’re staying, Jane!” he shouted, his voice mingling with the music like a note all its own.
I’m not! I wanted to say, but my throat was so tight that I couldn’t make the words come out, and then it didn’t seem to matter what I said, because he was leaning down, his lips hovering over mine, and more than anything I wanted one last kiss. The fiddle grew louder and louder, filling my ears, screeching high until suddenly the world tilted crazily, and I blinked and found myself back on Walnut Street.
For a moment all I could do was drink it in—the shouting newsboys, the maids gossiping on their way to their errands, the dogs begging at the butcher shop, the carriages clip-clopping down the cobblestone streets. There was the aroma of baking bread, and fish, manure, and a dozen other smells that mixed and swirled in a way that was only Philadelphia.
I walked quickly down the street to our house, my heart beating rapidly. Walking toward me carrying a basket was a figure I would recognize anywhere. I ran straight into her arms.
“Mrs. Parker!” I cried, hugging my old housekeeper tight. “I’ve missed you so!”
“Oh, Miss,” Mrs. Parker said, her plump face clouding over.
“You must make one of your cherry pies now that I am back,” I insisted, tugging her along with me as we walked toward home.
“But Miss Jane,” she protested.
And then we were standing in front of our house.
But our house was gone.
Where our parlor had once been situated, a groom led a horse from a stable.
“Miss Jane, I tried to tell you,” Mrs. Parker said sadly, her face flushed with unhappiness.
Behind me I heard a soft laugh, a laugh I knew all too well.
Sally Biddle.
I turned around. She was shaking her head at me, blond corkscrew curls bobbing. “Why, if it isn’t Jane Peck,” Sally Biddle drawled.
My face drained of blood.
Sally pointed her fan at me. “Your house always did bear a great resemblance to a stable.”
Somehow I found my voice. “You—you—”
“It was a very good bargain, really,” Sally informed me in a silky voice. “When your father died, my papa bought it for a song. I was the one who suggested it, actually.”
This wasn’t happening.
“Oh, and Jane—I forgot to mention. I’m having a party on Friday. Perhaps you can come.” She paused, and laughed softly. “And work in our kitchen!” And then she burst into laughter.
Her laughter stung my ears like breaking glass, and I couldn’t bear it. I just picked up my skirts and ran into the street. I ran down the cobblestones, my face wet with tears.
Mrs. Parker’s voice rang in my ears.
Watch out, Miss!
The carriage was coming straight at me, swerving wildly.
I screamed once—and then woke up.
The schooner was due to depart in the afternoon, so I set off first thing in the morning to say my farewells. I headed first to Father Joseph’s chapel.
It was cool, but the sky was bright and blue. As I followed the path that led to the chapel, I rehearsed what I was going to say to Father Joseph. The gentle priest had fuzzy eyebrows that danced beneath the dome of his bald head when he was excited. That was exactly what they were doing when I arrived at his chapel. He was describing various saints to Kape, who seemed to be on the verge of nodding off.
Kape, the young man who had proposed that I bake pies in exchange for work on the oyster beds, was thus far Father Joseph’s only recruit. Father Joseph was very enthusiastic about converting him to Catholicism. He had baptized him François, but everyone still called him Kape.
“Hello, Father,” I said.
“Mademoiselle Jane,” Father Joseph said happily. “I was just discussing the saints with young François here.”
Kape looked relieved at the interruption.
“Boston Jane,” Kape said, patting the shirt he was wearing. It was the one I had sewn for him. “This shirt is very good.”
“Would you care to join us?” Father Joseph asked eagerly.
I hesitated for a moment. Father Joseph had been one of my companions on the voyage from Philadelphia, and while the priest had vexed me at first, I had grown fond of him.
“I’m leaving,” I said.
Father Joseph raised one fuzzy eyebrow. “Leaving?”
“Yes, I’ve decided to return to Philadelphia. On today’s schooner,” I said quickly.
“Maispourquoi, Mademoiselle?” he asked, opening his hands wide, palms up. “This is your home.”
The way he said home, with such contentment and certainty, made my unease grow until it was like a heavy ball of unbaked dough in the pit of my stomach.
“Philadelphia is my home,” I said quickly. “Truly, I don’t belong here. And besides, the oystering venture with Mr. Swan has been a disaster.”
“But Mademoiselle, you must give Mr. Swan a second chance. It is Christian to forgive.”
I barreled on as if he hadn’t even spoken. “I don’t fancy spending the rest of my days taking in men’s mending.”
“Who will make pie?” Kape asked.
“I’m sure Mrs. Frink is quite capable of baking a pie.”
Kape seemed unconvinced.
“Have you told Jehu about your plans?” Father Joseph asked quietly.
“I don’t believe Jehu’s opinion has any bearing on my life,” I said stiffly.
“You must at least tell Keer-ukso that you’re leaving!”
“I suppose I should,” I admitted reluctantly. I had hoped to make a quick escape. “He’s at M’Carty’s helping mend the roof.” With Jehu, I thought.
Father Joseph looked relieved. “Wait a moment.” He dug around in a basket in the corner and pulled out two bottles of wine. “Would you mind taking this to M’Carty? For the pain.”
“Where did you get them?”
He looked a little shamefaced. “It’s communion wine.”
Poor Father Joseph was normally firm about Church doctrine, and I imagined that the bishop would not approve of doling out communion wine to men who broke their legs. I took the bottles.
“You shall be missed, Mademoiselle,” Father Joseph said, and then he gave me a great hug.
I hugged him back hard, the scratchy wool of his robe grating on my cheeks and soaking up my tears before he could notice them.
The day grew unseasonably warm and humid. By the time I reached M’Carty’s homestead, I was damp and uncomfortable. I took off my cape and carried it.
Jehu was perched on the roof, shirtless, his muscled back coated with a fine sheen of sweat.
“Boston Jane!” Keer-ukso called, walking toward me, carrying planks. He wasn’t wearing a shirt either! Was I destined to see the bare chest of every man on Shoalwater Bay?
Jehu heard Keer-ukso’s shout and peered at me. He scaled down to the ground.
“Something wrong back at the cabin?” he asked, wiping the hair from his forehead.
“Uh, no,” I stammered. “Everything’s fine.”
“What have you got there?”
I held the bottles of wine aloft. “I brought them for M’Carty. From Father Joseph.”
“That the only reason you came?” he asked quietly.
Before I could answer, Keer-ukso was at my side. He nodded at the roof, explaining, “We fix roof in Chinook way.”
The Chinook way was to use cedar planks, as I knew from helping Keer-ukso myself once. “It looks very good,” I assured him, as he and Jehu both retrieved their shirts to put on.
“Come meet Cocumb,” Keer-ukso said, taking me by the elbow and leading me into the log cabin.
The last time I had seen M’Carty he had looked strong and fit, even a little full at the belly. Now he was thin and drawn. His leg was propped up on a pile of pi
llows and secured by two thick sticks bound with a bandage. A Chinook woman with a dark fall of hair was bending over him, her face turned away.
“Is that Miss Peck I see?” M’Carty joked, his smile strained.
The woman gave a firm tug on the bandage around his leg.
“Cocumb!” he barked in pain, struggling to sit up.
But his wife pushed him back to the pillows. M’Carty reached for a whiskey bottle on the side table, but Cocumb beat him to it, swatting his hand away. M’Carty groaned dramatically. Cocumb shook her head, as if scolding a belligerent schoolboy, and turned to us with a sigh.
“Boston Jane,” Keer-ukso said, introducing me.
“I’m very pleased to finally meet you,” I said, extending my hand.
Cocumb shook it firmly. “I have heard much about you.” Like many of the Chinook, she spoke very good English.
I pressed the wine into her hand. “From Father Joseph.”
“Good man,” M’Carty called from the bed. “I’m nearly plumb out of whiskey.”
Cocumb sniffed in disapproval and then turned to me. “Come and have some tea,” she offered.
“Thank you very much. That would be lovely.”
Cocumb set out tea and freshly made biscuits. I eyed M’Carty’s miserable form on the bed. “How did M’Carty break his leg?”
M’Carty groaned dramatically.
Cocumb rolled her eyes. “My husband wanted to fix roof himself.”
“I could do it, too!” he complained from the bed.
She and I exchanged a meaningful glance and laughed.
“I wanted you to meet my daughter,” Cocumb said. “But I sent her to stay at my father’s lodge because my husband is so much work,” she finished, with a rueful glance at M’Carty.
“What brings you out here, Miss Peck?” M’Carty asked. “Looking to hire another schooner? ’Cause I don’t recommend waiting much longer if you’ve got oysters to send to San Francisco. I’ve got a feeling that winter’s gonna come early this year. Now, it’s just a feeling, mind you, but I’m usually right about these sorts of things.”
Jehu’s figure suddenly filled the doorway, and I remembered why I had come.
Wilderness Days Page 8
