Boston Jane

by Jennifer L. Holm

  Mr. Swan came into view with Father Joseph peering anxiously over his shoulder. I could see Handsome Jim’s worried brown eyes just beyond Father Joseph.

  “Boston Jane, you awake?” Handsome Jim said.

  “What happened?” I croaked.

  Mr. Swan pushed his spectacles up his nose. “You’ve been out for almost two days. You took a capital tumble, my dear girl. Got a knot the size of an egg on your forehead. Suis used some of her poultice to fix you up. And the good Father has kept a vigil, encouraging all of us to pray for your recovery.”

  I gingerly reached up to touch my forehead and winced. It was swathed in bandages. Suis swatted my hand away.

  “A tumble?”

  Mr. Russell shouldered his way into the room. “Right over a cliff, ya useless gal!” he bellowed. His voice was as loud as a rifle, and my poor head ached at the sound.

  “I feel terrible.”

  “Ya look terrible. What were ya thinking? Wandering around in the dark like that?” Mr. Russell scolded. “Ya scared us half to death. Poor Jehu is beside himself.”

  Jehu.

  A moment later Jehu was at my side, and we were alone. For some unaccountable reason my heart thumped faster.

  “Jane,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

  I closed my eyes, remembering the smell of him, so close.

  Beware the Great Mistake.

  Jehu took my hand and wrapped it inside his own. He stared at me with those blue eyes of his and for a moment I was almost lost, but then I remembered myself. And William.

  “It was a mistake,” I whispered, pulling away.

  “Then it was the best mistake I ever made.”

  I shook my head, shaking away the memory of that kiss. I thought of Sally Biddle and Miss Hepplewhite and William, and stiffened my resolve. I had worked hard to become who I was, and I wasn’t about to toss all that away because of one starry night. Because of a sailor with bright blue eyes.

  He stared at me, a stony expression on his face.

  “I’m already spoken for,” I said. “I gave my word.”

  “To a man who couldn’t be bothered to meet you,” he countered sharply.

  The truth of it infuriated me.

  “You simply don’t understand,” I said between clenched teeth.

  “I understand well enough, Miss Peck,” he said bitterly. “I understand that you’d prefer some fool who has the good manners to abandon you on the frontier over someone like me. A scarred sailor.”

  “That’s not it at all. It’s just not proper—”

  “The devil take proper!” Jehu shouted.

  He turned and stomped to the door.

  “You make your own luck out here, Miss Peck,” Jehu said, and he was gone.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  or,

  A Valuable Rule

  Another week went by, and it was time to harvest the oysters.

  The Hetty had arrived right on schedule and was anchored in the bay, waiting for her precious cargo. I was sufficiently recovered from my tumble to take part in the activities, but the bruise on my forehead lingered, reminding me of Jehu Scudder. Jehu had not spoken to me since he visited me at Mr. Russell’s.

  We set out at dawn for the oyster beds. The sun shone brightly, warming our shoulders, and the bay was calm and smooth with hardly a ripple. It was low tide, and as Mr. Swan had predicted, hundreds of crusty-looking oysters were clearly visible below the water line.

  “Look at them all,” I said, amazed.

  Mr. Swan had engaged Handsome Jim and several other Indians to assist us in the harvest. We used our hands and tongs and sturdy baskets to gather the oysters. When the baskets were full, they were emptied into the canoe. Halfway through the day, I stopped to rest. I looked out at the water and marveled at the sight. Across the bay, the pioneers of the settlement and the Indians of Toke’s village worked side by side gathering oysters into baskets. Mr. Swan was watching me.

  “This is the best hope for the territory,” he said.

  “Well, I suppose the oysters ought to bring in some money.”

  “No,” he said, waving at the canoes stretched across the water. “Indians and pioneers toiling together peacefully. This is the true bounty.”

  Mr. Swan had many peculiar notions. But it seemed to me that he might be correct in this instance.

  By the time the horizon started to turn a kaleidoscope of red, our canoe was overflowing with oysters. I felt a rush of pride at the sight of all our hard work. I, Jane Peck, had helped in a real oyster harvest!

  “A good day, my dear,” Mr. Swan said cheerfully.

  We paddled our precious cargo to where the Hetty was anchored, and I was startled to hear Jehu’s voice ring out. I looked up and saw him striding back and forth, getting all the pioneers’ oysters stowed away and ordering the men about so that they could leave in good time.

  “Mr. Swan, what is Jehu doing up there?”

  Mr. Swan gave me a considering look. “He’s been hired on to captain the Hetty back to San Francisco. Their captain died on the journey here.”

  “But what about the Lady Luck?”

  “Captain Johnson is taking the Lady over to San Francisco to sell the timber he’s cleared from his claim.”

  So Jehu was leaving. I felt so many different things. It seemed cruel to allow him to think that I had any choice in the matter. I had made my choice long ago, and there was no changing it now. William was my betrothed. And Jehu wasn’t. It was really quite simple.

  I had to make him understand that it had nothing to do with him. I knew I couldn’t let him leave without saying something. What I would say, however, was a mystery.

  “Jehu?” I called from the canoe, but he just ignored me.

  “Swan, get your oysters up here or we’ll leave without you,” he called. “We’re making the tide.”

  “Mr. Swan,” I said. “I would like to speak to Jehu. Can you help me up to the deck?”

  Mr. Swan looked at me, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. “Of course, my dear.”

  Once on board, my courage fled, and all I could remember was a black starry night and blue eyes shining down at me. I shook myself. I had to speak to him. I steadied my resolve and walked decisively up to Jehu and then halted a step behind his turned back.

  “Jehu,” I said nervously.

  Jehu whirled around, and his face darkened at the sight of me.

  “That’s Captain Scudder to you,” he said coldly. The scar on his cheek twitched.

  “Jehu, please,” I begged, remembering that night, that kiss. “What are you doing?”

  “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m captaining this boat back to San Francisco and then I’m signing on to the next ship headed as far away as I can get, maybe even China.”

  I held up my hands to stop his rush of words.

  “You must realize I was overwrought, and tired. I was not myself. I never meant to kiss you!”

  “But you did, Jane,” he said in a steady voice. “You did.”

  And oh, how I wanted to kiss him again.

  “Don’t you see? I am spoken for,” I said, frustrated and torn. “I have no choice.”

  “You do have a choice!” he shot back.

  “I cannot break my word,” I said softly.

  Jehu rubbed a hand through his hair.

  One of the crew shouted, “We’re all fitted up, Captain!”

  I placed my hand on Jehu’s arm and felt it tense beneath my touch.

  “Please—”

  He cut me off. “Unless you fancy a trip to San Francisco you best get off this boat.”

  “When shall you return?”

  “What does it matter to you, Miss Peck?” he challenged, his eyes clouding over. And with that, he turned and strode across the deck.

  Back on the beach, I watched the Hetty sail across the smooth bay. She disappeared with the setting sun.

  And Jehu Scudder with her.

  Everybody, it seemed, was leaving.
/>   I watched in dismay as Mr. Swan packed a small bag. He had just informed me that he and Mr. Russell and Chief Toke were going to Astoria, a large trading post on the other side of the Columbia River, in Oregon. While I was not displeased to see Mr. Russell leave, I was less happy about Mr. Swan’s departure. Most of the assorted men had cleared out since the oyster harvest, and I would be all alone in the encampment.

  “Mr. Russell needs supplies and Toke and I have some business to attend to,” Mr. Swan said reasonably.

  “But who will protect me?”

  “Father Joseph will be just down the stream at his chapel.”

  That was hardly reassuring.

  “But why can’t I go with you?” I asked desperately.

  “You may come with us, of course, but what if William returns when we are gone? He is due any day now, I believe.”

  William.

  Of course, he was right. I couldn’t leave.

  “Why don’t you ask Handsome Jim to stay with you?” Mr. Swan suggested.

  “How long will you be gone?” I asked, twisting my hands.

  “Two weeks, maybe a little longer.”

  “Yar in charge, gal,” Mr. Russell said with a warning glance. He scratched his head, and I swear I saw a flea jump. “Don’t be giving away anything on credit now, ya hear?”

  There was no help for it. I gave in to my fate.

  “Well, Mr. Swan, seeing as you’ll be in civilization, could you purchase me some fabric? And some thread and a new pair of shoes?”

  “I can’t promise the shoes, but I most certainly can get you fabric.”

  “Come on, Swan,” Mr. Russell said.

  I knew by the way he was pursing his lips that he was going to spit, and I quickly stepped to the side. Sure enough, a great gob of tobacco landed on the sand. But not on me! It seemed I had the mountain man figured out at last.

  “Good-bye, my dear. I’m sure you’ll be fine. See you in a few weeks!” Mr. Swan called happily as he walked down to the waiting canoe.

  I couldn’t help but wonder if this was how he had left his wife and children in Boston.

  I stared at the empty cabin.

  Since I was stuck, I decided I might as well take the opportunity to rid Mr. Russell’s cabin of bugs and give it a proper cleaning. As Mr. Swan had suggested, I asked Handsome Jim to come and stay with me, and he readily agreed.

  Handsome Jim helped me haul out all the blankets. I washed them in the stream and hung them on the line to dry, far away from Mr. Russell’s cow. Then I dusted all the shelves and organized the provisions. After that I ripped off the horrible animal skin window coverings and stitched some plain curtains out of several embroidered handkerchiefs that still remained in my trunk. I swept every inch of the cabin and made Handsome Jim take down the immense rotten cougar skin and stow the stinking thing behind the cabin. I was determined to be rid of the fleas once and for all.

  Finally I dragged Brandywine over to the stream and proceeded to give him a bath. He whined pitifully.

  “You are infested with fleas, Brandywine,” I said, scrubbing the dog’s hide. The fleas fairly leaped off Brandywine and onto me as if trying to avoid their fate.

  Brandywine jumped and splashed and attempted to run away, but I chased after him and dragged him back to the water, soaking myself in the bargain.

  “Boston Jane like baths,” a voice said.

  It was Suis, and she had a basket in her arm. I expected she wanted to trade.

  I let go of Brandywine and he took off into the brush, no doubt to find more fleas. I climbed out of the stream, pushing the wet hair out of my face.

  “For Boston Jane,” Suis said, and passed me the basket. “For lodge.”

  “Trade?”

  She pressed the basket into my arms. “Gift.”

  I peered in. Smoked salmon and berries were nestled in the sturdy beargrass basket. The basket had an intricate design of a crane woven into it. I wondered how many hours of work it had taken to make such a lovely thing.

  “Oh Suis. Thank you,” I said. “Won’t you come in and have some coffee?”

  Her eyes brightened. Suis was very fond of coffee, although Mr. Russell had warned her to avoid any I made.

  She smiled and sat down at the sawbuck table, and I put water on to boil.

  “Do you do all the trading for your family?” I asked to make conversation.

  “Women make best traders,” she said, eyes flashing.

  “Doesn’t Chief Toke mind?”

  She shrugged. “Toke gets what Toke wants.”

  It seemed so unladylike. I knew instinctively that Miss Hepplewhite would not have approved. “Boston women don’t trade.”

  “Boston women, what do they do?”

  “Do?” This sounded suspiciously like something Jehu would ask.

  “I do many things. Trade. Fish. Paddle own canoe.” Suis ticked off her list as efficiently as Miss Hepplewhite.

  “Boston women are supposed to be pious and meek and modest,” I explained. All at once I remembered Papa asking if I was going to let my brain rot and tongue drop out from lack of good use.

  “What means pious?”

  “To attend church. You know, Father Joseph’s house,” I said, gesturing in the general direction of his chapel.

  “Boston Jane, you not go to leplate house.” The Chinooks called Father Joseph “leplate” after the French word for priest, le prêtre.

  Well, she had a point, but I had my reasons. I tried to explain in a way she would understand. “Pious means believing in the spirit world.”

  “You not believe in memelose tillicums.”

  I sighed in frustration.

  There was a moment of silence and then Suis asked, “What means modest?”

  “To be quiet.”

  She laughed and shook her head sharply. “You not quiet. Boston Jane, you not good Boston woman.”

  “Of course I am!” I clearly just needed to practice Listening Well.

  Suis raised an eyebrow. “Boston women mend roof?”

  “Well, not as a general rule.”

  “Boston women have oyster beds?”

  I stared at her steadily, drumming my fingers on the table. “I suppose not.”

  She nodded her head as if to say, Exactly. “Boston Jane not good Boston woman.”

  Was Suis right? Was I no longer a respectable young lady?

  I remembered Miss Hepplewhite’s parting words of advice:

  “Jane, you are entering a time of great danger and temptation. Remember this valuable rule. Never forget who you are. It is your duty to be ever a proper young lady and serve as an example that will make me, and your schoolmates, proud.”

  I fell into an uneasy sleep that night.

  I was back in Philadelphia and dressed in my Chinook skirt, my hair hanging loose down my back. Familiar sights met my eyes—carriages clattering down cobblestone streets, ladies and gentlemen strolling, newsboys shouting.

  And then I saw Sally Biddle walking down Arch Street toward me wearing my white velvet wedding dress, a man on her arm, his face bowed.

  “Why look,” she said. “It’s Jane Peck, back from the frontier!”

  Strangers stopped and stared at me.

  “And she’s brought the latest fashions!”

  I shrank away.

  “That is, if you want to go about looking like a filthy savage!” Sally Biddle burst out in peals of laughter.

  The man at her side looked up, and I could suddenly see his face clearly. The gray eyes and beautiful teeth.

  William!

  I woke with a start. The cabin was quiet, save for the sound of the fire crackling and Handsome Jim’s light snores. I groaned and pulled the pillow over my head.

  I was just about to drift off to sleep when I felt the weight of someone sitting gently on the bed beside me. An owl hooted outside the cabin.

  “Get off the bed, Brandywine,” I muttered crankily from under the pillow. But the weight did not move. I held my breath. A
nd then I heard the unmistakable sound of water dripping on the floor beside my bed.

  Except it wasn’t raining.

  Slowly I peeked out from under the pillow.

  Mary was sitting on the edge of my bunk, dripping wet, her skin glowing a sickly, unnatural white in the moonlight pooling through the windows. Reproach glittered in her eyes. Reproach and something else, something like anger.

  She leaned forward, and water from her hair fell on my arm in stinging drops.

  “No!” I shouted, and then she was gone.

  “Boston Jane?” Handsome Jim asked sleepily. He squinted at me from across the room. The sight of his familiar face calmed me somewhat.

  “I had a bad dream,” I whispered, staring across the bunk. “About Mary. My friend who died on the voyage here.”

  He nodded. This was something he understood.

  “Memelose,” he said.

  “No, it’s not a ghost,” I said shakily. “It’s just a bad dream.”

  Handsome Jim shook his head. “Memelose speak in dreams.” He pointed at my forehead, where there was still a small scar from my recent fall. “Mary try to kill you and take you to spirit world.”

  “Nonsense,” I said. “It was an accident. I tripped.”

  “Change name,” he insisted. “Change name now or memelose find you.”

  I shook my head. “I can’t do that. It’s the only thing I have left that reminds me of who I am. I am Miss Jane Peck of Philadelphia and that is that.”

  “Change name now,” he said stubbornly.

  “If I change my name I shan’t even know who I am anymore!”

  He looked at me with liquid eyes.

  “You know,” he said simply.

  Being haunted by an angry ghost was the very worst sort of bad luck. For in the days that followed, it seemed I caught glimpses of Mary everywhere.

  I would come back from the outhouse in the middle of the night and there she would be, lying on my bunk among my rumpled blankets, staring at me with her black, angry eyes. Sometimes I would be awakened by Brandywine’s soft growls to see her standing by the fire, her hands held out as if to warm them. And once I thought I felt her icy fingers tangle in my curls as I brushed my hair.

  I took to inviting Suis and Sootie and even Father Joseph to supper as often as possible. I was grateful for the company and furthermore, I harbored a hope that the presence of so many people would keep Mary away.