Boston Jane

by Jennifer L. Holm

  “Do you truly think so?” I asked shyly.

  “Why, yes, I do,” he said, ignoring Papa’s loud snort of disdain.

  A reluctant smile tugged at William’s lips. When he smiled like that I had a warm feeling in my belly, nearly the same feeling I had after eating Mrs. Parker’s cherry pie.

  I grinned at Papa.

  “Since you mentioned it, Papa, I do need new dresses. Miss Hepplewhite says mine are most unsuitable because of all the cherry stains.”

  Papa sighed heavily and sank back into his chair.

  There was much to learn at the Young Ladies Academy, and Miss Hepplewhite considered me a challenge.

  “Raw clay, that’s what you are, my dear,” she said, not unkindly. “But we will mold you yet.”

  Miss Hepplewhite demonstrated with a footstool how to enter and descend a carriage properly, which didn’t involve leaping as Jebediah and I usually did.

  “Like so,” she said, holding up her petticoats carefully and arching one tiny foot.

  She showed me how to stand gracefully, how to walk, and how to sit. I was amazed to discover that I had been standing, walking, and sitting the wrong way all these years!

  Really, I didn’t know anything at all!

  “A young lady,” Miss Hepplewhite emphasized, gazing at me, “should never skip or jump or scream.”

  My hand crept up timidly. “What about running?”

  Miss Hepplewhite looked pained.

  “Miss Peck,” she said at last, “a young lady should never, ever, under any circumstances whatsoever, run. Should you find yourself in a situation where you are at risk, it is always preferable to faint. Do you understand me?”

  The other girls giggled.

  “Yes, Miss Hepplewhite,” I whispered.

  I knew better than to ask about spitting or lobbing manure.

  How I learned! Each day I reported back to William on my successes at Miss Hepplewhite’s. He alone seemed to appreciate my diligent study.

  “Today we learned Chapter Seven or, Deportment at the Dinner Table. I learned that a young lady should speak in low tones, never laugh out loud, yawn, or blow her nose at the table,” I informed him. “Or spit!” I added, remembering.

  William was sitting at the desk in his bedroom with maps spread out in front of him.

  “Really?” he asked in a distracted voice. “No spitting?”

  “No belching either. Papa is going to be upset about that one.”

  “Hmmm,” William said, his attention fixed firmly on the maps before him.

  “What are those?” I asked, scrambling around the desk, trying to get a closer look.

  He regarded me with serious eyes.

  “Those, Miss Peck, are maps of the frontier.”

  “Where the Indians live?” I gasped. There were always thrilling stories about Indians in the newspapers, how they abducted women and ate babies and did all sorts of horrible things to the poor pioneers. Jebediah always said that he would like to meet some Indians one day, as long as they didn’t cut off his scalp.

  William nodded. “Yes, there may be savages there. You see, Jane, when I’ve finished my apprenticeship with your father, I’m going to go out there and make my fortune.”

  “Are you going to dig up gold in California?” Jebediah had told me all about his plans to go to California and dig up the gold in the ground. Jebediah had lots of big plans. I heard all about them as I practiced Listening Well.

  “Not California, Jane. Every fool from Boston to the Carolinas is rushing out to dig up California. Not I. I’m not going to spend my life digging in a pit. I’m going where there’s land to be had.”

  “Where is that?”

  He pointed to a spot on the top left-hand corner of the map. “Oregon country,” he said, his eyes glowing.

  “Why don’t you get land here, in Philadelphia?”

  William laughed grimly. “I am the youngest son of five boys. There is no money left for me.”

  “Why not?”

  “If I had been born first, my father’s printing business would be mine. But I had the bad luck to be born last.”

  “Papa says you make your own luck,” I said.

  William made a dismissive sound. “Your father has many peculiar ideas. You cannot change luck. Nothing will alter the fact that my eldest brother is heir to everything.” His voice softened. “And I am the heir to nothing.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “No,” he murmured. “It isn’t.”

  I wanted to say that I would give him anything to take that sad look off his face, but I remained silent.

  He seemed to gather himself. “Which is why I must work twice as hard and be very clever. It is only through my own cleverness and determination that I shall succeed,” he said in a firm voice.

  “Like me!” I said. “I have to work hard, too. Why, I haven’t thrown manure in over two months!”

  But William appeared not to be listening to me. “I will have my experience as a surgeon to support me as I try to obtain land. And there is land to be had, Jane.”

  “What good is land?”

  “Land,” he said, slapping the map, “is the key to a man’s fortune.”

  “I could go, too,” I said eagerly. “I could help you.”

  “What would you do?” he asked, raising a smooth eyebrow.

  “I could learn how to bake Mrs. Parker’s cherry pie!”

  “Perhaps you could, Jane,” he said with a slight smile. “Perhaps you could.”

  The day was warm and Miss Hepplewhite’s soothing voice rose comfortingly in the room. She was teaching us Chapter Eight or, Dress as a Test of Character.

  “Your true character is shown in your dress, girls,” she said.

  A young lady should have neat habits, she explained. This meant wearing a pressed dress, a tidy bonnet, fresh petticoats and stockings, and clean gloves. Most important of all were the clean gloves. A real lady never went without clean gloves.

  “Furthermore, a proper young lady must strive always to be appropriately dressed,” Miss Hepplewhite said, eyeing our outfits as she walked up and down the rows. Papa had recently bought me some clothes, and I was wearing my new ensemble—a pale blue silk dress with a puff of muslin about the wrists, a new bonnet, and matching gloves. I liked it very much, but it was nothing compared to what Sally Biddle was wearing.

  As usual Sally was wearing a dress of the very latest fashion. It was pink and white organdy with layers of scalloped flounces of lace ringing the skirt and caught up in small bouquets. She had added a straw bonnet trimmed with white flowers and a thickly fringed white parasol with more flowers. With all the flounces and flowers, she greatly resembled an iced cake. Everyone agreed that Sally Biddle was the best-dressed girl in the class.

  And she knew it.

  Sally Biddle sat up straighter as Miss Hepplewhite passed, a small, confident smile on her face. But Miss Hepplewhite continued down the row and, to my amazement, paused next to me.

  “Miss Peck is a sterling example. She is wearing a simple, tasteful frock and she has taken the time to match her bonnet and gloves to it. The most elaborate dresses rarely produce the best effect. Simple outfits with thoughtful details such as muslin about the wrists are always in good taste because they allow one’s true beauty to be perceived.”

  Sally Biddle seemed to stiffen.

  “Those are lovely gloves.” Miss Hepplewhite smiled approvingly. “Well done, Miss Peck.”

  I glowed at her praise. It was the first real praise Miss Hepplewhite had ever given me. The girls sitting around me dutifully murmured soft compliments.

  Sally Biddle and some of the other girls lingered in the hall after class. I paused to listen to what they were discussing.

  “It requires more than new gloves to be part of Society, wouldn’t you agree, Cora?” Sally asked conversationally.

  “Oh yes,” Cora agreed emphatically. “After all, they let just anyone buy gloves.”

  I looked down at my
new gloves, a hot, sick feeling rising in my throat.

  Sally’s eyes slid to mine. “Why, even my maid wears gloves, but that doesn’t mean I’d ask her to tea!”

  “Except perhaps to serve it!” Cora squealed.

  I pushed past Sally before the tears spilled out.

  Her soft laugh followed me.

  I rushed down the cobblestone streets, my stomach one thick knot of shame, my eyes clouded with tears. And, of course, at this most fortuitous moment, I tripped on a fresh pat of manure, my feet going out from under me. I fell to my knees, stopping my fall with my gloved hands. As I picked myself up, people stopped and stared.

  I ran the rest of the way home, crying in earnest.

  “Miss Peck, whatever is the matter?” a voice said.

  It was William.

  Hastily I wiped my eyes.

  “I’ll never be part of Society!” I hiccuped.

  William pulled out a pocket-handkerchief and pressed it into my hand.

  I blew my nose hard, as if I could blow away all the horrible things that had happened today.

  “Now tell me why you’ll never be a part of Society,” he said.

  “My gloves!” I said, holding out my soiled hands.

  “Your gloves?” he asked in a perplexed voice, recoiling slightly. They did smell awful.

  “I thought that if I looked like a proper young lady, I would be one. But Sally Biddle said that just because you wear nice gloves, it doesn’t mean you’re part of Society! What if she’s right? What if I never fit in?”

  William was silent for a moment, as if deep in thought. Finally he said, “Jane, we are alike, you and I. It is only through our own cleverness and hard work that we will succeed. You must not allow impediments to stand in your way. You must reach for what you desire, for it will never be freely given to you. Do you understand?”

  “I think so,” I said finally.

  William looked thoughtful. “I imagine this Sally Biddle is simply jealous of you.”

  “Jealous? Of me?”

  “One of my younger sisters, Elizabeth, who is your age, had a similar problem with a girl like your Miss Biddle. Do you know what she did?”

  “What?”

  “Beth ignored her. And after a time the girl stopped taunting her.” He patted my hand. “Perhaps you should ignore Miss Biddle.”

  The next morning Sally Biddle was in the hallway with Cora Fletcher and some other girls, waiting for class to begin.

  “Keeping your gloves clean, Jane?” Sally asked brightly. “I understand Jane had a slight mishap on the way home yesterday,” she explained helpfully to her audience.

  The other girls looked expectantly at me. I started to feel that familiar sick feeling in my belly, but then I remembered William’s good advice. I tugged up my gloves, looked straight ahead, and walked right by her and into the classroom.

  “Well done,” a girl seated in front of me whispered in an admiring voice.

  I could not resist a peek behind me.

  Sally Biddle was still standing there, staring after me like a dog who has had its bone taken away.

  Miss Hepplewhite had said that Thinking and Sewing (Chapter Six) was a useful exercise, especially when one was worried or upset. And that was exactly what I was doing. For in spite of having successfully ignored Sally Biddle, I had new worries. Specifically, my waist.

  An ideal young lady, Miss Hepplewhite had stressed, should have a slender waist, sunken cheekbones, and a pale face—should look, in fact, as if she were on the verge of fainting. While I might have been plump, I had never considered myself fat. Now I spent hours in front of the mirror, worrying that perhaps Mrs. Parker’s cherry pies had something to do with the way my skirt pulled tight against my belly.

  “You just have stout bones, Janey,” Papa said, and although he was a surgeon and qualified to give an anatomical opinion, I knew he was only being kind. There was no escaping it.

  I was simply enormous.

  And that was the very reason I was sewing so furiously. I needed to keep my hands busy so that they wouldn’t reach out for Mrs. Parker’s cherry pie, waiting on the table, piping hot from the oven and smelling so tempting. Papa and William were eating it right across the room from me. I could almost taste the warm golden crust, the sweet cherries, and the thick cream dribbled over it. My stomach growled loudly as if it, too, knew that Mrs. Parker’s pie was in the vicinity. Papa raised a questioning eyebrow, and I looked down quickly.

  My fingers moved faster over the piece of embroidery I was sewing, a small red cherry, and I tried not to think of the way the cherries would ooze out of the pastry, tasting sweet and warm. Sewing was the one thing that Miss Hepplewhite didn’t have to teach me. Papa had taught me how to sew years ago. “So you can help me stitch up cracked skulls,” he said.

  “Certainly is quiet living with a young lady,” Papa said, looking over at me, a little sadly it seemed.

  I would have responded that a lady was supposed to be quiet, but I was feeling very short of breath. I had just put on my new corset, and it was giving me considerable trouble. Trouble, in particular, with breathing. The corset was reinforced with whalebone stays, and it had taken Mrs. Parker the better part of an hour to secure it tightly at my waist. Now it felt as if a million fingers were poking into my middle. I could barely breathe. But what other option did I have? I would never have a waist as slender and ladylike as Sally Biddle’s unless I did something about it. Still, I couldn’t help but stare longingly at the half-embroidered cherry, imagining it peeking from a piece of flaky crust.

  “Why anyone would choose to be a lady is beyond me,” Papa said, addressing no one in particular. “It isn’t much of a choice. Unless you like letting your brain rot and your tongue drop out from lack of good use.”

  I gave a ragged breath, wincing at the tightness in my middle. A thought suddenly occurred to me. This is what it must have felt like to be one of Papa’s patients and be sat on by a fat little girl! No wonder they always behaved afterward.

  “Why are you fidgeting so?” Papa demanded. “You look like you’re being tortured, girl!”

  I wanted to say that I was being tortured but wisely said nothing. Papa had a very poor opinion of corsets, and it had been only by begging Mrs. Parker that I had managed to secure one.

  “Well?” he asked again.

  “I’m fine,” I said.

  “You’re not wearing one of those corsets, are you, Janey?” he asked suspiciously. “There’s nothing fashionable about crushed organs.”

  “Papa!” I hissed. What was Papa thinking, to discuss such things in William’s presence!

  “Hmmph,” he said.

  “Papa, I need some money,” I said, eager to change the subject.

  “Do you now?”

  “I need to buy ribbons for my bonnet. Miss Hepplewhite says that dress is a test of character, and all the girls at Miss Hepplewhite’s have ribbons on their bonnets.”

  Papa snorted. “What have ribbons got to do with character? Besides, I just bought you three new dresses, two parasols, a cloak, and two pairs of shoes. Not to mention four pairs of gloves. Four pairs! That’s quite enough, I think, for one small girl who can’t be bothered to speak her mind at the supper table.”

  “But Papa,” I pleaded. “All the girls have ribbons!”

  “Then you’ll be the only ribbonless girl in Philadelphia. I’m sure you’ll survive.”

  “But—”

  “There is more to life than amassing a wardrobe. When was the last time you picked up a book?” He shook his head. “I did not raise you to be a vain and shallow girl.”

  “But Papa—”

  “No, Janey,” he said firmly. “And I don’t want to hear another word.”

  The next afternoon William was waiting for me when I returned home from the Young Ladies Academy.

  “For you,” he said, placing a small, paper-wrapped packet in my hand.

  I looked at him in astonishment.

  “Go on,”
he said with a beautiful smile. Have I mentioned he had all his teeth? “Open it.”

  My hands trembled as I unwrapped the paper. I gasped when I saw what was inside. Beautiful green silk ribbons, more than a dozen. Enough to decorate several bonnets!

  “They’re beautiful,” I whispered. I had never received a more precious gift in my whole life! Papa usually gave me boring gifts, never anything as wonderful and important as ribbons!

  He nodded.

  “I’ll treasure them,” I said earnestly. “They’ll look lovely on my new bonnet.”

  “Yes,” William said. “A bonnet is just the thing to tame that hair of yours.”

  I nodded, patting my wild hair. What a good idea.

  “Green suits you, Jane,” he said. “You should always wear green.”

  “I shall,” I solemnly vowed.

  It seemed that no time passed at all, but months disappeared and suddenly William’s tenure with Papa was at an end.

  William announced his intentions at supper one dark, winter evening. A crisp wind promising snowy days ahead drifted through the crack of an open window. I looked out a window, imagining William and me strolling down the snow-covered street, my hand resting lightly on his arm, his eyes smiling down at me.

  “I have secured passage as surgeon on a clipper ship bound for San Francisco,” William said, beaming. “The Sea Witch.”

  I sat up abruptly.

  “You’re leaving?” I asked in a stunned voice. “When?”

  “Tomorrow. We leave on the tide.”

  “Tomorrow,” I echoed dully. I remembered all his talk about wanting to go west, but still, how could he leave me?

  Papa looked equally surprised but quickly gathered his wits. “Congratulations. That’s a fine post. You’ll get plenty of experience.”

  “It’s a way to get west.” William shrugged. “I plan to head north and settle on Shoalwater Bay, in Oregon country. The government is offering land grants to settlers.”

  “There can’t be many pioneers out there,” Papa said curiously. “Who will you treat?”

  I could not believe that Papa was capable of asking such questions! Why didn’t he ask William to stay on? He needed William as much as I … didn’t he?