Mercer's Belles

by Heather B. Moore

  “Did you fall into the ocean on purpose?” he asked.

  Had his lips quirked?

  “No, of course not.”

  “Then why are you apologizing?”

  This question brought her up short. “Because . . . I inconvenienced you. And I didn’t exactly make it easy for you to rescue me. I think I hit you more than once, possibly kicked you at least a dozen times.”

  He looked at her for a long moment. Had she annoyed him even more?

  “If saving a drowning woman is an inconvenience,” he said in a slow tone, “then I need to get my head checked.”

  Harriet stepped back, because she was standing much too close to him. “Well, I’m sorry all the same, and I’m grateful that you . . .” She waved a hand toward him. “Sacrificed your person to save me. I mean, you could have drowned.”

  Now he was smiling.

  Her heart skipped two beats.

  “I wasn’t going to drown,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “But you said that I was about to drown us both,” she said, heat rising in her neck.

  “Not possible,” he said, his lips twitching again. “I might have been overdramatic.”

  She stared at him.

  “I mean,” he started out slow. “I practically live on the sea. Swimming a dozen yards in the harbor water isn’t all that treacherous, unless one doesn’t know how to swim.” He gave her a pointed look. “The only thing I regret, Miss Silverton, is losing my hat.”

  He knew her name? She didn’t even know his. “Then I will replace your hat,” she declared. “What type was it?”

  It was his turn to stare at her, but then his expression shifted into another smile. “Don’t worry about it. The hat’s not replaceable.”

  She opened her mouth to question the truth of that statement when the boat suddenly powered down, and Harriet nearly lost her footing.

  True to his rescue-habit ways, the man grasped her arm to steady her. For a long second, they were sharing breathing space again, and she had to pull her gaze away from his brown eyes.

  “Do you get seasick?” he asked.

  Her stomach did feel queasy, but she wasn’t going to admit that to him. How unladylike. “No.”

  His scan of her face did nothing to ease the nerves tumbling in her belly. “You look pale.”

  “I am Caucasian.”

  He threw his head back and laughed.

  His laugh was low, and deep, and unfettered. When he stopped, she had given up on holding back her smile.

  “Lavender,” he said. “It helps with the queasiness. But seeing that we’re only a half hour from land, you’ll have to save it for your next sea voyage.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t think that’s going to happen. Seattle will be a fine location to live out the rest of my life.”

  At this statement, he arched his brows. She felt a little surprised herself at her declaration.

  “You’re not homesick?” he asked.

  “I’m only homesick for dry land, not Philadelphia.”

  He nodded, a thoughtful expression on his face.

  Voices approached, and a couple of other passengers headed toward the nearest rail. Harriet’s private conversation with this man was over.

  His gaze cut to the newly arrived passengers. “Well, I’d love to hear your story of why you’re not homesick, but I need to speak to the captain about a few things before we land.”

  He was leaving. Why did she want him to stay? “Do you live in Seattle?” she asked, feeling desperate to know something about him. Anything.

  “I do.” He stepped back and tapped an imaginary hat. “Nice to meet you, Miss Silverton.”

  “Harriet,” she said quickly.

  His easy smile was back. “Harriet.”

  Her cheeks heated at her presumptiveness. Did he notice her blush?

  With a final nod, he turned.

  “Wait,” she said.

  He paused in his step and looked back at her. Those brown eyes connected with hers, with that quirk of his mouth that was already familiar, and she almost lost her courage. “What’s your name?”

  “Caleb Munns.”

  Harriet both wanted to laugh and blush with embarrassment at the same time. Thankfully it was dark, since they’d arrived in Seattle after 11:00 p.m. All about the dock burning lanterns had been placed so that there was enough light to disembark. As Harriet walked with Mercer’s group, Vivian stayed close behind her on the gangplank, acting as a protector. Mr. Mercer walked in front of her after saying, “If you slip, grab onto me.”

  Short of holding her hand like a small child, she was being coddled. In fact, he’d insisted she carry her parasol. “To act as a cane, if needed.”

  “I’ll be fine,” she’d said more than once, although the sight of the black water below the gangplank sent a shudder through her.

  Adding to the whole occasion was Caleb Munns, standing on the dock, holding up a glowing lantern as he watched her making her way across the gangplank.

  It was all ridiculous. Falling into the harbor at Teekalet was a one-time event, not a precursor to each and every time she sailed. And she’d been serious when she’d told Mr. Munns that she wasn’t going to be sailing anytime soon, or for the rest of her life, for that matter.

  She had no reason to return to Philadelphia, and she’d already determined that Seattle would be as fine a place to live as any other. By the time she stepped foot on the dock, Mr. Munns had disappeared into the crowd of passengers, dock workers, sailors, and fishermen.

  Harriet tried not to dwell on the fact that they hadn’t really said goodbye, because what did it matter? She’d likely never see him again anyway. She didn’t even know what he did for a living, but based on his appearance, she guessed logging or shipbuilding. What else could make his shoulders so broad, and his arms so muscular . . . She should probably stop thinking about him, or Vivian would ask why in heaven’s name she was blushing.

  Besides, she didn’t come all the way to Seattle to be caught up in thinking about a man who looked like he could have stepped out of the wild West from fifty years ago. She’d read the accounts of explorers. So she wasn’t naïve to what went on in the outer reaches of the territories—horse roundups, cowboy shootings, women of questionable repute.

  A young boy bumped into her.

  “Oh,” Harriet said, backing away as the boy held out a grubby hand. Perhaps he’d mistaken her for his mother in the darkness?

  “Do you have any money?” he asked.

  Harriet was so stunned, she didn’t speak for a moment. Then another child pushed her way in front of Harriet. “My ma is sick, do you have any food?”

  “I was here first,” the boy said, shoving at the girl.

  Harriet was about to intervene, even though the last thing she wanted to do was touch such a filthy child, when a whistle blew. From a policeman somewhere in the crowd. The children scattered. It was then Harriet noticed other small children, moving through the crowd, begging for handouts. They were little things, their faces dirty, their feet bare, their hair tangled. Did these children have homes? If so, where were their parents? She shuddered to think they might be homeless.

  “Harriet!” Vivian’s voice cut through Harriet’s running thoughts.

  She turned to find Harriet peering at her with a quizzical look.

  “Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said?” Vivian asked.

  “I . . .”

  “Mr. Mercer wants us all at the hotel right away,” Vivian said, an exasperated note in her voice. She leaned closer to whisper. “We’re attracting too much attention on the dock to be safe, and he wants to discuss our new job assignments in a more private place.”

  It was then that Vivian noticed that indeed there were many men watching them. Some of them had stopped in their work, congregating in small groups, using their lanterns to get a better look at the women. Speculation, curiosity, and interest in their eyes.

  Harriet knew the other women in the company were mu
ch more striking than she, with her rather average features of dark brown hair, plain blue eyes, and, like Mr. Munns had pointed out, pale skin. But the men were looking at her, too. A new experience, to say the least.

  She linked arms with Vivian, and they hurried after the rest of the group, away from the dock. Several crew members from the sloop walked alongside them, holding up lamplight for them to see their way. A cart had been loaded with all of their trunks and luggage, and it rumbled after them along the cobblestone streets. “Mr. Mercer said the hotel’s not far, so we’re walking.”

  They turned up one street, then another, Harriet still carrying her unopened parasol. Frankly, the cool evening air felt nice on her face, and the queasiness had already subsided. They soon arrived at the Occidental Hotel, a three-story building. The architecture was simple but appeared clean and well-kept. Stepping inside confirmed her first impression. Rugs scattered about the lobby, giving the place an elegant feel. Groupings of chairs with tables and gas lamps also adorned the space. Mr. Mercer was already at the registration desk, speaking to a clerk.

  Some of the women wandered the lobby, peering at the paintings of landscapes on the walls. A couple of the women sank into the high-backed chairs.

  Harriet was content to stand and catch her breath for a few moments. The knot of queasiness in her stomach that had been present since San Francisco had abated. For that she was grateful. And she realized she was ravenous. She hadn’t felt this hungry for ages, but it seemed that no meals were close at hand this hour of the night. She moved to the windows that looked out onto the dark street, which was illuminated in spots with street lamps.

  She stared when she saw a familiar man. His copper hair gleamed in the lamplight, and she didn’t miss the wide sweep of his arm as he spoke to another man. The second man had his hat pulled low, and Harriet noted that Mr. Munns was still hatless.

  They seemed to be in a bit of a disagreement. Mr. Munns’ gestures grew more animated. Next, things happened so fast, that Harriet wasn’t exactly sure who shoved first, or who punched first.

  She gasped as both men tumbled to the ground, fists flying. Before she could think twice, she ran out of the hotel and headed across the street to the men in the dirt. A few onlookers had stopped, but no one seemed to mind the men beating each other’s faces. Was this normal in Seattle?

  Someone could be seriously hurt.

  “Stop!” she shouted.

  Harriet would never call herself the aggressive or bold sort, but her blood boiled, and something hot rose from deep inside her. Indignation. Because the second man had the upper hand over Mr. Munns. In fact, Mr. Munns wasn’t fighting back at all. Horror rushed through her, and she pushed past the onlookers.

  “Stop hitting him!” she cried, swinging her parasol on top of the second man’s head.

  The second man turned with a furious growl. His eyes widened with surprise when he saw her. And then he lunged for the parasol. Too late. Harriet had already stepped back, and with a fierce swing she hit him square in the stomach.

  The man released an “Oof,” then doubled over.

  “If you don’t stop fighting, I will poke your eye out,” she said in a trembling voice, keeping her parasol aimed at him. She wasn’t quite sure if the end of her parasol would truly do the trick, but right now the details didn’t matter.

  The second man slowly lifted his head. Blood stained his cheeks and dribbled from his lip. “Why, you little lassie, you’re gonna pay—”

  Apparently Mr. Munns wasn’t as far gone as Harriet had first thought, and he snaked a hand around the second man’s ankle and tugged him off balance. The second man landed with a thud on his backside.

  A whistle sounded from somewhere behind her, and a policeman pushed through the crowd. “Break it up. Break it up. What’s going on here?”

  The onlookers dispersed then, until all that were left were Harriet and the two men.

  The police officer looked between the lot of them. “Fighting over a woman, eh? I s’pose there are worse things to fight over.”

  “No, sir,” Harriet protested. “They were not fighting over me.”

  But the officer wasn’t listening. “You’re back, Caleb? What’s going on? Is ole Bill bothering you?”

  Harriet whirled. Sure enough, Caleb Munns had climbed to his feet, no worse for the wear. Unless you counted a black eye and a swollen lip. Not to mention his shirt was torn, revealing a bloody scrape on his firm chest . . .

  Harriet blinked and shifted her gaze back to the policeman.

  Caleb was out of breath, but he had no problem explaining what was going on. “Bill Sutter here thought he could sell my fishing boat while I was gone.”

  “You never came back last week,” Bill spat out. “Thought you went missing or something. How was I supposed to know you were delayed?”

  Caleb turned on Bill. “You very well know that delays happen in travel all of the time. You’re a vulture, you know that?”

  Bill moved closer, his chest lifted. “You never paid me back for the load from two years ago. I say you owe me.”

  “We both lost on that one,” Caleb said. “We put in the same amount, and we lost equal.”

  The police officer raised his whistle to his mouth and blew.

  The two men stopped arguing, but that didn’t stop their glaring.

  “You’re coming with me, Bill.” The police officer grabbed the man’s arms and handcuffed him.

  Bill groaned, and despite everything, Caleb chuckled.

  “You too, Caleb,” the police officer said, gripping the man in handcuffs and motioning for Caleb to follow.

  Bill smirked, and Caleb scowled.

  “Just to get it all sorted out with the captain,” the police officer said.

  Caleb gave a curt nod. “I’ll be there shortly.”

  The police officer tugged Bill along with him and headed down the road.

  Harriet took a step back, because now Caleb was looking at her. She couldn’t quite decipher his expression but guessed it to be a cross between consternation and admiration.

  When he grasped her parasol and slid it out of her hands, she didn’t move.

  He closed his fingers around each end, then bent the parasol so that it was straight again. Apparently, it had bowed when she struck Bill. Then he handed it back.

  She took the now-straightened parasol and met his gaze. “You need to get cleaned up, sir.”

  He folded his arms, and she tried not to wince at the scrapes running up his forearms. “You could have been hurt,” he said.

  Harriet arched a brow. “You should look into a mirror.”

  But Caleb shook his head. “Women don’t belong in the middle of a man’s fight.”

  This is how he thanked her? She might have saved his life. Although, right now, he looked as strong and healthy as ever, save for his scrapes and bruises. Perhaps panic had made her think things were much worse than reality.

  Harriet could not form a civil reply, and she didn’t like that a couple of the women from her group had come out of the hotel, Vivian included. Harriet wasn’t interested in an audience.

  So she turned from Caleb Munns and crossed the street, then entered the hotel without a single glance behind.

  It turned out that Harriet had quite the audience. When she walked into the lobby of the hotel, all the Mercer’s belles stared at her. “Belles” had been a nickname they’d adopted on the voyage on the way over.

  “Are you all right?” Vivian asked, rushing back inside with her.

  “Yes.” Harriet tucked in the strands of her hair that had fallen from their pins. “I’m fine, thank you.” But her breathing was too fast, her skin too hot, her legs a bit shaky.

  “You should not have interfered with those men, Miss Silverton,” Mr. Mercer said next. His dark brows were pulled together as he surveyed her rumpled appearance. “As I explained on the onset of our voyage, the belles need not interfere in a man’s business. You’re representing all of us with your actions, mi
nd you.”

  Harriet could only stare. She’d never been reprimanded in public in such a way. She realized she was perhaps an odd duck compared to the average woman. But still.

  “We must keep ourselves unsullied,” Mr. Mercer continued. “If the belles are to be taken seriously and given every opportunity, all the women must—”

  Harriet held up her hand, effectively cutting him off. “I understand,” she said. “I don’t plan on repeating my actions, and I’m deeply sorry if I’ve disappointed any of you. Please forgive me.”

  Some of the belles glanced away, others nodded, and Vivian offered a tremulous smile. “Well then, all’s well that ends well, right?”

  The other women lifted their chins in approval.

  Immense relief swept through Harriet. She was still part of the group. Mr. Mercer’s eyes remained hooded, though, and she hoped that he’d still follow through on his promise to secure her a teaching position.

  “Well, then,” he said, clapping his hands together. “Like I was saying before the interruption . . . we will retire for the night, and tomorrow afternoon we’ve been invited to a reception at University Hall. The people of Seattle are grateful for our arrival and want to show appreciation. Later that evening, there will be a dance.”

  “What about our interviews?” Harriet blurted out. She supposed she’d missed an important announcement or two. Were they not here to interview for teaching positions?

  Mr. Mercer drew her aside to explain as the other women organized which hotel rooms they’d be staying in. “After the social, Women’s Benevolent Society of Seattle will explain which areas in the city need teachers and instruct the belles on writing letters of application. Interviews will take place likely the following day. They’ve assured me that all the belles will be snapped up for teaching positions almost immediately. We’ll also be attending a local dance hall after in order to mingle with Seattle’s finest. The belles are expected to wear their best dresses.”