Boston Jane

by Jennifer L. Holm

  “We are living in exciting times,” he insisted, waving a hand. The sun caught his hand and something glinted on his finger. It was a slender gold band. I felt a rush of sympathy for the unfortunate man. No doubt he had come out to escape the memory of his poor dead wife.

  “But Mr. Swan,” I said. “You will not meet another woman out here in these wilds.”

  “Why would I want to meet another woman?”

  “Isn’t your wife dead?”

  “My wife—dead? No, she is very much alive, as are my two children.”

  I shook my head, bewildered. “But where are they?”

  His eyes clouded. “Boston.”

  “Really! Well, when shall they be joining you out here?” I asked eagerly. It would be so cheering to have the company of another lady in this wilderness.

  He sighed heavily. “They aren’t. Matilda does not wish to come,” he said, and I was startled by the sorrow in his voice.

  “But why?”

  “She is a lady,” he said shortly.

  “I am a lady,” I said defensively. There was something about the way he said it that sounded like an accusation. The wind brushed against my bare legs, and I looked at my Chinook skirt. “Or I used to be.”

  “Of course you are, Miss Peck. But an altogether different sort of lady, I suspect, than my wife.”

  I didn’t know whether or not I should be offended, although I imagined that his wife had made the correct decision. There were bathtubs in Boston, not to mention respectable dresses. And wasn’t it just a bit odd to abandon one’s wife and children to study Indians?

  We passed a group of Chinook women weaving baskets industriously, and all at once I stopped.

  “Mr. Swan, what am I to do until William arrives?”

  “What did you do before you came here?”

  “I attended Miss Hepplewhite’s Young Ladies Academy.”

  “How interesting.” He rubbed his beard thoughtfully. “And what were you studying? Mathematics? Philosophy? History? Botany?”

  “Etiquette, Embroidery, Watercolors, Music, and I had just begun Conversational French when I left,” I said. “In fact, it was William’s good suggestion that I attend in the first place.”

  “I see,” Mr. Swan said.

  “I was an excellent student.”

  Mr. Swan looked at me, his spectacles gleaming in the sun. He had the same expression Papa had when I told him about Miss Hepplewhite’s.

  “I imagine you were.”

  “Well?” I asked. “What am I to do?”

  “I suppose you’ll just muddle along, like the rest of us,” Mr. Swan said with a jolly smile.

  And then he started walking on again.

  That evening Chief Toke invited us to supper at his lodge in honor of our arrival.

  Mr. Swan rubbed his hands together. “You are in for a real treat, my dear.”

  The floor of the lodge was a hive of activity with supper being prepared. The air inside was smoky from all the cooking and for a moment my eyes stung, but then they adjusted to the dim interior. There were no windows, and it seemed strangely darker than it had during my earlier visit. I looked up and saw stars glittering through spaces between the cedar planks that served as the roof. Below the ceiling, a grid of poles had been rigged, upon which fish were laid.

  “Mr. Swan, why are there fish hanging from the roof?” I asked.

  “That is how they preserve the salmon, with the smoke,” Mr. Swan said.

  Without any hesitation, Mr. Swan scrambled up onto one of the benches arrayed along the length of the lodge, and after a moment I did the same, followed by Jehu. It was considerably easier to climb in my new skirt. Nevertheless Father Joseph shook his head when he saw my bare ankles.

  “Mademoiselle,” he muttered under his breath.

  Sootie caught sight of me and quickly climbed up to show off her doll. It seemed to be little more than a clam shell dressed in a scrap of fabric, but I knew she loved it by the way she hugged it so tightly. I suddenly remembered the rag doll Papa had sewn for me when I was a small girl. I had carried that little doll with me everywhere until finally her yarn hair had fallen off and both arms went missing.

  “You loved that doll to death,” Papa had said with a smile, shaking his head at my poor armless doll.

  I pictured the lovely dining room in our house on Walnut Street and wondered what Papa was having for supper. Most likely Mrs. Parker’s roast pork and apples, I thought with a pang. She always cooked roast pork and apples on Thursdays. At least, I thought it was Thursday.

  Our supper consisted of freshly caught salmon and some strange roasted root vegetables. After the gull incident, I resolved it was better not to ask. I looked around. Although there were rough-looking bowls with carved spoons, there were no forks or knives in sight.

  Mr. Swan winked. “You must use your fingers, my dear.”

  Heavens! People of polite society simply did not use their fingers, but my belly was growling in a most determined way. In my fuss with the dress that morning, breakfast had been forgotten. All the others seemed to be using their fingers. What would Miss Hepplewhite say?

  My belly growled loudly.

  Jehu heard it and laughed. “Better eat, Miss Peck.”

  Gingerly I picked up a piece of fish and put it in my mouth as quickly as I could.

  The salmon melted on my tongue. It was delicious. In short order my salmon was gone, and my fingers were sticky. Deportment at the Dinner Table (Chapter Seven) advised that a handkerchief could be used in a pinch if a napkin could not be found, but I had neither. I glanced around, and then, when I was positive no one was looking, quickly licked my fingers.

  “You should’ve brought one of those embroidered hankies,” Jehu said.

  I blushed at being caught.

  A moment later a bowl of water was passed around the room to clean our fingers. It seemed that the Indians had their own version of proper table manners after all. Although Mr. Russell, gentleman that he was, preferred to use his sleeve instead.

  “I’m taking some of my boys and looking for a timber claim tomorrow, Swan,” Captain Johnson boomed.

  “Very good, Captain,” Mr. Swan said.

  A flicker of apprehension shot through me. I turned to Jehu. “Will you be joining the captain?” I did not want to be abandoned with only Father Joseph for company.

  He shook his head. “I’m staying here to make repairs on the Lady Luck.”

  I nodded, unaccountably relieved.

  Brandywine was snoring lightly by one of the fires, his belly full of food. Chief Toke eyed the sleeping dog and said something in the Jargon. Everyone laughed.

  “Toke says that dog, he have salmon for Tomanawos,” Handsome Jim explained to me.

  “What’s Tomanawos?”

  “Chinook people, we all have Tomanawos,” he said.

  “And what is that exactly?”

  Mr. Swan explained. “The Chinook believe that every person has his own guardian spirit, or Tomanawos, that watches over him. It’s usually an animal, like a bear or an eagle or some such. This guardian spirit protects and guides them.”

  “Spirits?” Father Joseph asked, his fuzzy eyebrows arching.

  “Yes, my good man. The Chinook are great believers in spirits,” Mr. Swan said.

  I turned to Handsome Jim. “What is your Tomanawos?”

  Handsome Jim shook his head. “Secret.” He regarded me with interest. “Boston Jane, you have Tomanawos?”

  “No.” Clearly I had no guardian spirit looking after me. If I did, I would never have been in this muddle in the first place.

  Across the campfire, Chief Toke’s sharp eyes bored into mine. He said something and everyone around the fire laughed, except Suis, who looked startled.

  “What?” I asked nervously. “What did he say?”

  “Boston Jane, she have Tomanawos because she looks more beautiful in Chinook dress,” Handsome Jim said, beaming.

  Chief Toke spoke again and then grinned at
me.

  Mr. Russell hooted with laughter.

  Suis’s eyes darted back and forth between the men, her face hardening.

  “Now what did he say?” It was terribly frustrating not being able to understand this Jargon, and I had a bad feeling they were amusing themselves at my expense.

  “Toke says that you are much better off in the Chinook style of dress than your Boston dress. Now you can run freely like the elk,” Mr. Swan said.

  “Ladies do not run,” I said firmly.

  Handsome Jim rapidly translated for Chief Toke. Chief Toke looked as if he felt sorry for me.

  “Toke ask Boston Jane, why she not want to run like elk?” Handsome Jim translated.

  “Or kick your heels up and dance?” Jehu added softly.

  “Dance?” I whispered in a shocked voice.

  “That’s a dress meant for dancing,” Jehu said. His eyes seemed to glow in the firelight.

  I held up my hand, as if to ward away the very idea. Miss Hepplewhite was firmly opposed to dancing.

  “Dancing is a wicked pursuit,” Father Joseph said, as if seconding Miss Hepplewhite’s long-ago opinion. “And not fit for a good Christian girl.”

  Jehu shook his head in disappointment.

  Chief Toke smiled at me and said something that made Handsome Jim grin wildly.

  Handsome Jim started to translate. “Toke says that Boston Jane have—”

  Suis interrupted loudly, her voice strident. “Boston Jane, she not have Tomanawos. Boston tillicums, they do not have Tomanawos.”

  Chief Toke looked at Suis sharply, but Suis just glared at him.

  It didn’t seem like a good idea to make an enemy of the chief ‘s wife, so I hastened to agree. “You’re right, of course. I don’t have a Tomanawos.”

  “Boston Jane, she not have Tomanawos!” she insisted, looking right at me.

  Sootie looked on with wide eyes, clearly upset by her mother’s shouting.

  Chief Toke barked something at her, but Suis got up and stalked away.

  I threw up my hands in bewilderment. “What did I do?”

  “I don’t know,” Jehu said. “But you sure do have a way with people.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  or,

  Pouring Tea and Coffee

  I was situated on the beach, working on a rather dismal watercolor of the bay, when it became clear that I needed less color and more gray.

  It had rained every day since our arrival. I went about in a constant state of sogginess. My hair was an eternally tangled, wild mess in this weather. I was grateful Sally Biddle was on the other side of the continent, for I could almost hear her comparing my hair to a squirrel’s nest.

  Watercolors were not my strong suit, but Miss Hepplewhite had very kindly given me a small supply of paints and paper and brushes as a wedding present, and I was determined to paint a picture for William. Besides, it was a way to pass the time. I had rigged my parasol over my easel to protect it from the rain, but the wind shifted and a fine spray spattered the paper, causing the paint to run.

  “Blast!” I whispered to myself, trying to mop off the water without smearing the landscape.

  “Yar going to have to start working for yar grub, gal!” a voice said loudly.

  I nearly jumped out of my skin.

  Mr. Russell stood behind me with an obstinate look on his face. He spat a huge wad of tobacco. It landed on the sand next to my shoe.

  “You scared me to death,” I said, hand fluttering to my chest.

  “Like I said, gal, yar gonna have to pitch in. What can ya do?”

  “I am very skilled at supervising help,” I explained reasonably. Miss Hepplewhite had always stressed the importance of running a good household, with particular emphasis on managing help politely but firmly. I could also make very good flower arrangements.

  Mr. Russell snorted.

  “Ain’t no help here, gal.”

  “But what about the Indians?” I asked. There were always Indians in and about Mr. Russell’s cabin.

  He shook his head. “Not ‘less ya got money to pay ‘em.”

  I needed to keep my money to find William.

  “What would you have me do?” I stared at him peevishly.

  “Can ya sew?”

  “I’m quite skilled at embroidery. I took first place at Miss Hepplewhite’s Young Ladies Academy for my embroidery of a violet on a pocket-handkerchief !” I announced proudly.

  One of his long whiskers jerked.

  “Follow me,” he grunted, and he turned sharply, striding rapidly up the beach. I abandoned my easel and followed, perplexed, until we arrived at the cabin.

  He pointed to a towering pile of rags in the corner.

  “Thar’s the mending,” he announced. From the top of the heap he grabbed a crusty-looking pair of pants with a considerable tear in the seat. “I ‘specially need my pants fixed. Thar the only other pair I got besides the ones I’m wearing.”

  “You expect me to repair those filthy things?” I asked, appalled.

  Wasn’t it enough that I had to sleep in this horrid cabin, being kept awake by snoring men night after night? Father Joseph was the worst. He snored loud enough to be heard back in Philadelphia. Not to mention, my blankets were festooned with fleas, worse than the bunks on the ship. Miss Hepplewhite said that a good guest never complained but truly, I was on the verge of losing my composure. Between the fleas and the snoring, I barely got a minute’s rest.

  And now I was expected to mend their awful clothes as if I were little more than a common maid. Did they truly expect me to be the help?

  “Ain’t good for much, are ya?” Mr. Russell said, shaking his head disdainfully.

  I was seized by a sudden longing to prove him wrong.

  “I can sew a small stitch and a straight seam more perfectly than you deserve,” I said. I’d show the horrible man!

  I snatched the filthy pants and marched away.

  It took me nearly all afternoon to mend Mr. Russell’s pants.

  Naturally I had to wash them first as they were so utterly filthy. Mr. Russell must have fought off an entire herd of wild animals in them for all the holes they bore. Believe me when I say that I was greatly tempted to embroider a violet on the backside.

  I presented the pants to him, clean and mended.

  He grunted.

  Mr. Russell rapidly became the bane of my existence.

  The only thing the mountain man was skilled at was tearing his clothes to bits. No matter how much mending I did, the pile in the corner never seemed any smaller.

  And then one morning I discovered Champ, one of the odd assortment of the dozen pioneers who lived in the settlement, lurking around the cabin. Men were continually coming and going from Mr. Russell’s cabin, as it served as the only trading post on the entire bay. Champ was notable for his ratty-looking beard. It was overgrown and greatly resembled a scraggly broom.

  “What are you doing?” I asked indignantly.

  Champ took off his hat. “Well, ma’am, I jest need this here shirt fixed. It’s got a powerful tear on the back.”

  “Did Mr. Russell inform you that you could put your mending in this pile?”

  “No,” he said sheepishly. And then added, “But he didn’t say I couldn’t.”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “I don’t know.” He cleared his throat. “But all the boys been putting their clothes here!”

  “All the boys?” I whispered dangerously.

  “Near as I can figure.”

  “You mean … to tell me … that I have been doing … the mending … for all the filthy men of Shoalwater Bay?” I asked slowly.

  The man blanched.

  “Kindly inform all the boys that I will not be doing any more mending! Do you understand?”

  Champ nodded, shamefaced.

  I stomped around the cabin and confronted Mr. Russell where he was milking his loathsome cow.

  “Mr. Russell!” I stamped my foot.

&nbs
p; His eyes flicked over, acknowledging me.

  “Did you know that every pioneer in this territory has been putting his mending in that pile?”

  “Might have.”

  “I am not a maid!”

  “Ya can sew and wash, can’t ya?”

  “I am a lady, and I will only do mending for you and Mr. Swan. Is that clear?”

  He shrugged, spat a wad of tobacco, and went back to milking.

  It wasn’t until I was back in the cabin that I noticed the glob of tobacco sticking wetly to the tip of my shoe.

  “Blasted man,” I muttered.

  Yelloh had been gone for a week and I had not received a word of his progress. Then a second week passed.

  Then a third.

  I grew more frustrated at my situation, but there was little I could do but bide my time in this increasingly grim country. It rained nearly every day, a gray, drizzly mist that seeped into my skin and made me feel altogether detestable. It proved entirely impossible to keep my shoes dry. I began to understand why the Indians went about barefoot. The weather made such uncivilized behavior seem civilized.

  After supper one evening, Mr. Russell said, “How ‘bout some coffee, gal?”

  If there was one thing I could do, it was pour coffee!

  “I’d be delighted to pour the coffee,” I said, remembering the helpful hints from Pouring Tea and Coffee (Chapter Three). As there were no children present, I wouldn’t have to worry about the strength of it, and Miss Hepplewhite always said that men preferred coffee with just a spoonful of sugar.

  “Not just pour it, gal,” Mr. Russell said. “Ya gotta make it, too.”

  “Make it?”

  “It don’t make itself.” His whiskers twitched. “Ya do know how to make coffee, don’t ya, gal?”

  The men were all staring at me as if I were stupid. Was I really so ignorant as not to know how to make such a simple thing?

  I pulled myself up. “Of course I do.”

  He grunted.

  In actual fact Mrs. Parker or Mary had always been the ones to make the coffee and I had been the one to pour it, but how difficult could it be? I went over to the shelves where Mr. Russell kept the supplies and found the tin of coffee beans. Sitting on a lower shelf were salt, cinnamon, peppercorns, and sugar. Behind the peppercorns was a grinder. Easy enough.