The Claim

by Jennifer L. Holm

  Hotel guests were called to meals by a bell. A hearty breakfast was served promptly at seven, and supper at six. There was always hot coffee available for a weary man who had come in from his oyster beds, and Millie was occasionally known to set out a late-night snack for hungry men. Mealtime was a boisterous affair, and the men ate whatever was put in front of them with incredible speed. A meal that took Spaark, Millie, and me the better part of the day to prepare was often dispatched within less than fifteen minutes! Still, we had learned to take this as a compliment.

  The dining room was arranged with the largest table at one end, and the other, smaller tables positioned around the room. The largest table was known as the head table, and this was where the Frinks took their supper, as did I. Mrs. Frink was a marvelous conversationalist, and dining at the head table was considered a treat. It was also, unfortunately, where I found myself seated that evening along with Sally and her parents, and another couple, the Hosmers.

  “So, Mr. Biddle,” Mrs. Frink said, and then asked the very question I was wondering myself. “What brings you to our fair Shoalwater Bay?”

  Mr. Biddle was plump and short, and the suit he wore strained at the seams. Clearly the sea voyage had not disagreed with him. If anything, he looked heavier than I recalled. His face had a rather squashed appearance, and his eyes seemed fixed in a perpetual look of dismay, or was it a frown? It was hard to say exactly, but altogether he resembled a small, irritable dog with a tuft of hair poking out of the top of his head.

  “I understand there are a number of investment opportunities in this part of the frontier,” Mr. Biddle said.

  “Are you interested in getting into oysters?” I asked, my curiosity near to bursting.

  “Actually,” he said, “my interests lie more in land speculation.”

  “How fascinating,” Mrs. Frink said. “You must speak with our Jane. She has been here longer than any of us and knows the bay the best!”

  Mrs. Hosmer turned to Sally and said, her admiration plain, “That’s a very fetching dress, Miss Biddle.”

  Mrs. Hosmer, who was just a few years my senior, had arrived with her equally youthful husband from New York after the new year. Even though they lived in a cabin down the muddy road, they took all their meals at the hotel. Apparently Mrs. Hosmer didn’t know how to cook. How they had survived the wagon-train journey was anyone’s guess, but her new husband seemed quite infatuated with his beautiful young wife.

  “Why, thank you. I just had it copied from Godey’s Lady’s Book,” Sally said with a modest smile. With a daring neckline that left her slim shoulders bare, I had no doubt that the dress Sally was wearing had been a highlight of the premier fashion magazine for ladies. More than one filthy oysterman had ceased shoveling food into his mouth and stared at her when she entered the dining room.

  “How I miss Godey’s!” Mrs. Hosmer said with a trace of longing in her voice.

  “But you must borrow my copies then,” Sally said. “And please call me Sally.”

  I watched this byplay with a trace of irritation. Sally clearly had not left her social skills behind in Philadelphia!

  A burly, filthy man at a table directly behind Mrs. Biddle turned around and tapped her on the shoulder.

  “Pardon me, ma’am,” he rasped. “But would you kindly pass me the salt.”

  She stared at him for a long moment and then turned her back, ignoring his request.

  “Well, I ain’t never,” he said.

  Millie whisked the salt off the head table and deposited it in front of the man.

  Mr. Biddle cleared his throat elaborately, as if preparing to launch into an oration. “Miss Peck. We were very sorry to learn of your father’s death,” he said, and I started.

  My father had been a surgeon in Philadelphia, and he had been much admired by all of society. He had belonged to the same club as Mr. Biddle. No doubt Mr. Biddle had seen Papa before his death, long after I had left Philadelphia. I felt tears prick behind my eyes.

  “Did Papa”—I hesitated—“did he say anything? I mean—”

  “Actually,” Mr. Biddle replied, “your father and I discussed my intention to come out here at some length. Before he died, James asked me to look in on you, and see how you and William were faring out here.” Mr. Biddle paused. “So, how are you faring?”

  I looked around the table at the expectant faces. Sally’s gaze was focused on my finger—where no wedding ring rested.

  “I am doing quite well, actually,” I said.

  Mrs. Biddle, who was seated on my right, turned to me and said in a critical tone, “The food certainly seems to agree with you.”

  I knew very well what Mrs. Biddle meant by this. Being slender and pale was all the rage back east, but I no longer subscribed to such fashion. As for Mrs. Biddle, she was the very image of the ideal Philadelphia lady, with her thin waist and ashen complexion. I rather wondered if the pained look on her face was from the tightness of her corset or from finding herself at the edge of the frontier, far from Philadelphia society.

  Mrs. Biddle lowered her voice to a loud whisper. “Are you not wearing a corset?”

  “No,” I whispered back. I had disposed of the confining garment some time ago.

  She shook her head in dismay.

  “Where do you live, Jane?” Sally asked.

  Jehu was building my house with the help of Keer-ukso. The three of us had designed it together over the spring, and I could hardly wait until it was finished. Finally I would have a home again, a place to call my very own. It had been rather slow going, as there wasn’t a proper sawmill on the bay, although Jehu and Keer-ukso hoped to remedy that soon by opening one of their own. My two dearest friends here had become fast friends themselves and would soon be business partners as well.

  “I’m living here while my house is being built,” I said.

  “I see. And where is your handsome husband?” Sally asked.

  Mrs. Hosmer looked at me with a confused expression. “You’re married?”

  “Actually,” I said, “I didn’t marry William.”

  Sally looked as if she were going to burst into laughter. I had expected just such a reaction from her.

  Mr. Biddle seemed perplexed. “Didn’t marry him? That’s the first I’ve heard of this.”

  “Papa,” Sally said, her voice tinged with amusement. “A lady has a right to change her mind.”

  Change my mind? I hadn’t changed my mind. When he finally appeared in the area many weeks after my arrival, William had already been married to another woman. So while I had technically broken off the engagement, it wasn’t for some flight of fancy.

  Sally turned to me, her eyes alight with mischief.

  She was clearly enjoying my revelation. “No doubt there are lots of eligible bachelors out here, Jane.”

  Before I could answer, Mrs. Biddle said in a horrified voice, “Do you mean that you have been living here, in the wilderness, unescorted, all this time?”

  In good society it was considered the height of impropriety for an unmarried young lady to live unescorted. Unfortunately, I hadn’t had much choice in the matter. My dear friend and companion, Mary, had died on the voyage here.

  “There are quite a number of ladies here now,” I said.

  “Well,” Mrs. Biddle sniffed. “It sounds most irregular.”

  “Were you and Sally friends back in Philadelphia?” Mrs. Hosmer asked.

  “Why, yes!” Sally said in a gay voice. “The very best of friends, weren’t we, Jane?”

  “How nice for you, Jane,” Mrs. Hosmer said, sounding a bit envious. “To have a dear friend here on the frontier.”

  “Oh, but I should very much like to be your friend, Mrs. Hosmer,” Sally said.

  Mrs. Hosmer looked delighted. “You are terribly kind, Miss Biddle.”

  I almost groaned.

  “By the way, Jane,” Sally said, “Cora Fletcher asked me to send you her regards. Her Midsummer Gala was quite a success this year.”

 
; “Really,” I said in a flat voice.

  Her eyes fairly sparkled as she murmured, “The punch was just delicious!”

  CHAPTER THREE

  or,

  The Sewing Circle

  After supper that evening Mr. Hosmer quietly took me aside in the hallway and asked me if I wouldn’t mind giving his new wife lessons in cookery.

  “Your pies sure are good, Miss Peck. And my wife, bless her heart, well, she just doesn’t have the knack. Way I figure, if you maybe taught her how to cook, we could eat meals in our own cabin once in a while,” he finished with a sheepish grin.

  “I’d be happy to,” I said, smiling.

  Judging by her faultless manners, Mrs. Hosmer had no doubt received an education similar to mine, and my schooling had proved impractical in most respects. It was all very well to know the difference between a salad fork and a fish fork, but what did it matter when the preferred method was using one’s fingers, as was the Chinook custom?

  The next morning I made good on my promise. I pulled on my bonnet and headed over to the Hosmers’ cabin, carrying a basket that contained a jar of preserved cherries. Mrs. Parker’s receipt for cherry pie was quite simple. The secret ingredient was a pinch of cinnamon.

  The Hosmers lived at the far end of Front Street, next to Mrs. Dodd, the laundress. The harsh smell of lye rising from great cauldrons of boiling water filled the air as I passed the Dodds’ yard.

  “Miss Peck, how kind of you to pay me a call!” Mrs. Hosmer exclaimed when she opened her door. “Do come in.”

  She ushered me in and bade me take a seat, but I wasn’t sure where. Every surface was cluttered with all manner of garbage.

  In addition to not knowing how to cook, Mrs. Hosmer apparently didn’t know how to keep house either, for the cabin was a disaster. Laundry was piled high everywhere, and clumps of mud crisscrossed the floor. The bed hadn’t been made, and the fire was cold. Dirty dishes were stacked precariously in a bucket, and there was a strange smell emanating from under a pile of rags in the corner.

  “Please excuse the mess,” Mrs. Hosmer began. “Mr. Hosmer has promised to find me a maid, but apparently good help is rather scarce on the bay.”

  “Mrs. Hosmer,” I said, placing my basket on the table and pulling out the jar of preserved cherries. “I thought we might bake a pie together.”

  “A pie?” Mrs. Hosmer said, sounding dumbfounded.

  “Yes,” I said. “A cherry pie.”

  She looked at me as if she thought I’d quite lost my mind. “Miss Peck, why would I want to do that?”

  She reminded me so much of myself when I’d first arrived on the bay. Like her, I had been a proper young lady who knew how to embroider and pour tea and dance perfectly, but I hadn’t known the first thing about cooking or building a fire or anything that involved real work. And at the time I had seen no reason to learn.

  I tried a different tack. “It’s just that all the ladies on the bay know how to bake, and sometimes we exchange receipts.”

  “Oh, I see. This is considered social here, to bake?” she asked.

  “Precisely,” I said. “I suspect your husband would love to come home to a pie. It is a very romantic gesture.”

  “He does like cherry pie,” she mused. “But it would be ever so much easier if there were a baker nearby.”

  “Wonderful,” I said. “Let’s get started.”

  I dug around and finally found a half-clean bowl and wooden spoon.

  “We’ll make the crust first. I’ll need some flour. Where do you keep it?” I asked.

  Mrs. Hosmer looked about the cabin. “I don’t recall seeing any lately. My husband usually takes care of those sorts of things.”

  “I suppose I could run back to the hotel and fetch some. But we’ll need lard as well.”

  “Lard?” Mrs. Hosmer sounded puzzled by the request.

  “What about pie tins?” I asked.

  She gave a bewildered shrug.

  In the end, Mrs. Hosmer watched. She watched as I ran over to Star’s to buy flour and lard. She watched as I ran back to the hotel to borrow pie tins and cinnamon. She watched as I fetched wood and built a fire. And she watched as I sorted her laundry, and washed all her dishes, and swept the cabin, and put fresh sheets on the bed.

  By the time I finished, the scent of baking pie filled the air, the cabin was neat as a pin, and I was ready to drop.

  “I’m so exhausted, Miss Peck, after all this work,” Mrs. Hosmer said dramatically. “But this was very enjoyable.”

  Just then Mr. Hosmer stepped into the cabin, his eyes widening in delight. “Something sure smells good.”

  Mrs. Hosmer beamed at her husband. “I’ve been hard at work all morning, darling!”

  “You’ve done a great job, sweetheart,” he said, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead. “Hasn’t she, Miss Peck?”

  “She sure has,” I said weakly.

  After wasting the better part of my morning trying to teach Mrs. Hosmer, I returned to the hotel to change into a fresh dress, then set about organizing things for the sewing circle that afternoon. It was my turn to act as hostess, and I planned to serve tea and jam tarts.

  Even though it was called the sewing circle, we didn’t actually seem to get any sewing done, preferring to gossip and eat instead. I adored the female camaraderie and looked forward to the few short hours I spent each week in the company of my lady friends. We took turns meeting at somebody’s house, and this afternoon we were meeting in the hotel parlor.

  While the hotel was not richly appointed compared to establishments back east, it was very comfortable, and a veritable paradise considering the rough accommodations of Shoalwater Bay. Many of the furnishings had been shipped from San Francisco. Warm oriental rugs lined the hallways, and the parlor, which I considered the nicest room in the hotel, featured two velvet-padded settees, as well as a shelf that held the beginnings of a library.

  Mrs. Frink was insistent that all men should read. I had been dubious at first but was astonished to find that the oystermen were quite voracious readers. The two most popular books were The Gold-Seeker’s Manual: Being a Practical and Instructive Guide to All Persons Emigrating to the Newly Discovered Gold Regions of California, and a book about a lady called The Wide, Wide World, by Miss Elizabeth Wetherell.

  I had just finished setting out the tea when the ladies began to arrive.

  “Hello, Jane!” they called out.

  The ladies filed in—Mrs. Woodley, Mrs. Hosmer, Mrs. Staroselsky, and, of course, Mrs. Frink. We had invited Mrs. Dodd, the laundress, to our little gatherings, but she never came, nor did Millie.

  We settled around the parlor.

  “How are things at the store?” Mrs. Frink asked Mrs. Staroselsky.

  “We finally got in those sewing needles I ordered,” Mrs. Staroselsky replied with flashing eyes. “For some reason, barrels of whiskey have no problem finding their way to Shoalwater Bay, but there never seems to be room in the cargo hold for a small packet of sewing needles!”

  We all laughed.

  “Speaking of whiskey, you’ll never guess what I witnessed the other morning,” I said mysteriously.

  “Oh, do tell us, Jane,” Mrs. Woodley encouraged me.

  “Well,” I said to my captive audience. “Apparently the men were drinking rather late into the evening.” I paused for effect. “And gambling.”

  This brought rolled eyes and clucking.

  “In any event, one of the gentlemen, I believe his name is Mr. Whitney, gambled away all of his funds and was still quite desperate to play cards, so he gambled away his shirt.”

  “His shirt?” Mrs. Hosmer exclaimed.

  “And his trousers,” I added blandly.

  Mrs. Hosmer’s mouth opened in an O of shock.

  “Which is how I came to see a man wearing a white chemise with a very nice length of lace at the hem wandering through town early the next morning,” I finished.

  The room burst into laughter.

  “Th
at was my good chemise!” Mrs. Woodley exclaimed in an indignant voice. “He must have stolen it off the line!”

  “The least he could have done was pay you for it,” Mrs. Frink said with a laugh.

  Mrs. Hosmer began to speak, but her words were drowned out by a flurry of loud shouting from outside. The shouting grew louder and louder, escalating until it was a roar.

  “Really,” Mrs. Frink said. “Can’t we have five minutes’ peace and quiet?”

  While the arrival of ladies on the bay had brought a civilizing influence on the whiskey-drinking men, I feared there were not nearly enough of us around to turn the tide of raucous and wild behavior. It was for this very reason that Mr. Frink required that all guests turn in their guns to be locked in the hotel safe.

  “Excuse me,” I said, and got up, walked to the front door, and flung it open.

  Two men were wrestling in the mud of Front Street while another group watched and cheered them on.

  “Gentlemen!” I shouted above the din. “If you do not cease your carousing, there will be no supper served at the hotel this evening.”

  The men abruptly stopped their shouting and looked at me with stricken faces.

  “We are trying to have tea,” I said in a firm voice.

  The men nodded sheepishly.

  “We sure are real sorry, Miss Peck,” one of them said.

  “You bet we are. We’ll be right quiet from now on,” another offered.

  “Thank you,” I said, and closed the door.

  The ladies applauded when I returned to the parlor.

  “Well done, Jane!” Mrs. Frink exclaimed.

  Mrs. Staroselsky was laughing so hard she hiccuped. “I don’t know what we’d do without you, Jane,” she said, eyes watering.

  I felt a flush of pride.

  “These tarts are lovely, Jane,” Mrs. Woodley said, eating her fourth one. “Although I probably shouldn’t be eating so many sweets.” She patted her plump waist. “My corset barely fits as it is!”

  “I’d be happy to give you the receipt,” I offered, pleased. I turned to Mrs. Hosmer. “How did the pie turn out?”

  Mrs. Hosmer wrinkled her nose. “I’m afraid that I forgot to take it out and it got rather brown on top. But my husband said it was the best pie I had ever baked him!”