Mrs. Staroselsky, whose husband is a shopkeeper here, is responsible for ordering all the fabric. She has horrible taste, and I daresay that the scullery maids of Philadelphia look like ladies in comparison to the rags she chooses. And she is not even the worst.
Mrs. Woodley, who has five ill-behaved brats, spends all her time eating. She can barely tie her corset, she is so nauseatingly fat. Every time I see her I am reminded of a pig.
The best of them, Mrs. Hosmer, has proved to be so tedious that I find myself making up stories in my head when I am forced to listen to her conversation. And she fantasizes that she is a cook—a cook! How laughable.
The proprietress of the hotel, Mrs. Frink, imagines that she is running a first-rate establishment. In fact, her tastes are—how shall I put it? I think “vulgar” and “low class” perfectly describe them. Our lodgings are cramped and filthy—barely fit for animals—and she lets just anyone stay here.
As I mentioned before, I have been enjoying myself immensely by toying with pathetic little Jane Peck and her deckhand sweetheart …
I stood there staring at the rest of the letter, her cruel words lingering in my mind.
After a moment I started to put the hateful letter back between the pages of the book … and then hesitated. I walked over to Mrs. Frink’s desk and slipped it between the pages of her ledger.
Later that afternoon Sally came wandering downstairs, her eyes scanning the room.
“Are you looking for this?” I asked in an innocent voice. I held the book out to her.
She hesitated and then snatched it from me.
“Where did you find it?” she snapped. “I’ve been looking everywhere for it.”
“It slipped behind a pillow.”
“Oh,” she said, and then leafed through the book, her face growing more anxious. Finally, in what looked like desperation, she turned the book upside down and shook it.
“Are you missing something?” I asked.
“Uh, no,” she said uneasily, and walked away.
Later that night, after supper, I was alone in the kitchen experimenting with a new receipt for oysters when the back door opened, and I looked up to see Mr. Russell standing there.
“Gal,” he said, tipping his hat and spitting in the same instant. He held out a tin bucket.
It was full of fresh-picked strawberries.
“Figured you could make one of them pies of yours with ’em,” he said, pulling up a bench.
“Thank you, Mr. Russell,” I said. “Would you care for some coffee?”
He nodded and I poured him a cup, adding the milk and sugar I knew he favored. The mountain man took a long sip and cracked a smile at me.
“Sure is better than that first coffee you made,” he said with a chuckle.
When I had first arrived on the bay, I had mistakenly ground coffee beans in a grinder that had been used to grind peppercorns. Needless to say, it had produced a fiery brew.
Mr. Russell sat there for a long moment, looking down at his cup.
“Heard what ya did for Katy, gal,” he said. He looked up, and I saw the admiration in his eyes. “I’m proud of ya.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Anyhow, I jest came to say good-bye. I’m leaving day after tomorrow.”
“You can’t leave!”
“I’m an old man now, gal,” he said, his face shadowed with a lingering sadness. “M’Carty and me, we came here together. I can’t rightly see stayin’ here with him gone.”
“But Mr. Russell,” I said urgently. “Please don’t leave here. I’d miss you so. We all would. You’re the heart of this place.”
“I’m ashamed of myself,” he whispered, his voice bleak. “For not standing up for Katy. For not taking care of her like I promised M’Carty I would.”
“Then stay and remind her every day what a wonderful father she had. Be the father he can’t be. I know you can do it,” I said. “After all, you’ve been like a father to me.”
Mr. Russell’s mouth trembled, and he nodded shortly.
Finally he said, “Reckon there’s a thing or two I could teach her.”
“Just as long as you promise not to teach her how to spit,” I said, and winked.
It was late when I finally finished cleaning up in the kitchen. I hung up my apron and, taking a lantern, made my way toward the parlor. The events of the past few days had left me quite exhausted, and I was looking forward to a good night’s sleep.
“Miss Peck,” William said.
I was so startled, I nearly dropped my lamp.
William and Mr. Biddle were ensconced on the settee, papers strewn out before them.
“Please join us, Miss Peck,” William said.
My eyes flicked to the papers. They looked very official.
“It’s very late, and I—I was just leaving to go to my house,” I stuttered. “I have a long day tomorrow.”
“Ah, what we wish to discuss may have some bearing on that,” William said in a voice that brooked no refusal. “Now please sit.”
I closed my eyes. I had known this moment would come, hadn’t I? I forced myself to sit down in a chair across from them.
“Ahem,” Mr. Biddle began. “Now, William here was telling me that there has been some … confusion … as to the legitimacy of a very agreeable claim.”
“Confusion?” I asked.
William gave a mock-weary sigh. “Miss Peck has been perpetrating a fraud.” He waved my claim in front of Mr. Biddle.
Mr. Biddle narrowed his eyes at me. “Is this true?”
I stared at him wordlessly.
“I’m sorry to say that I fear your father would be most disappointed in you,” Mr. Biddle said. “A young lady’s place is in the home. Married. Not out on the frontier, running about like a hellion, and cavorting with savage Indians. And now this business with the claim. You are meddling in men’s work. It has gone on long enough.”
“But it’s my home!” I gasped.
“Not anymore,” William said. “It was never a legitimate claim, and therefore we are seizing it.”
I closed my eyes. It was over.
“You’re not taking anything from anyone, Baldt,” a voice said mildly.
Jehu stood in the doorway, his blue eyes glinting in the candlelight.
“Mr. Scudder,” Mr. Biddle said, “this matter does not concern you.”
Jehu walked into the room and stared at the two men. “I reckon it does concern me. Seeing as Jane here’s the woman I love.”
I gasped.
“That claim you’re holding is legitimate,” Jehu said.
William snorted balefully.
“Legitimate?” Mr. Biddle said, sounding irritated. “My good man, I fear your feelings have overshadowed your judgment.”
Jehu shook his head. “That claim isn’t Jane’s.”
“I could have told you that,” William snapped.
“It’s her father’s,” Jehu said softly.
“What?” Mr. Biddle asked, startled.
“Dr. Peck never came out here,” William said, his voice strident. “I would have known, I—”
My eyes blinked open and I stared at Jehu in confusion.
“He didn’t have to.” Jehu gave me a gentle smile, his eyes shining. “Being a sailor and all, I spent a lot of time in Philadelphia.” He chuckled self-consciously. “I admit I got into a scrape or two back in those days. Fact is, I became acquainted with a surgeon who treated a lot of sailors. Turns out that gentleman was James Peck.”
Across the room Mr. Biddle was looking from William to Jehu, as if taking the measure of each man.
“Papa’s best clients were sailors,” I said. “You know that, William.”
Jehu nodded in agreement. “Dr. Peck was one of the finest men I have ever been acquainted with. At his request I filed a claim for the land in his name. I acted as his agent in this matter. It was James Peck’s claim. And now that he’s dead,” Jehu said, looking at me steadily, “it’s Jane’s.”
&
nbsp; It was as if the room fell away and he was as I had first seen him—standing on the ship, the blue sky bright behind him, his hair shiny as a crow’s wing.
“Do you have any proof of this?” William sputtered.
Jehu pulled a folded piece of paper out of his coat pocket, opened it, and placed it on the side table. “That’s Dr. Peck’s signature granting me authority to act as his agent.”
I looked at the document and my father’s signature at the bottom. Bold and strong as he had been.
James Peck
Mr. Biddle studied the paper and narrowed his eyes at William. “This is James Peck’s signature.”
William was on his feet. “I don’t believe this for a second. It’s a charade!”
Jehu stared at him, his gaze steely. “I don’t rightly care what you believe, Baldt. Fact is, a man who lies to a young lady to get her to come to the frontier for his own greed and then abandons her ain’t worth spit.”
Mr. Biddle’s eyes narrowed on William. “I thought you said Miss Peck broke off the engagement.”
“She did,” William insisted weakly.
“Only because you were already married to another woman! Or did you forget to mention that to Mr. Biddle here?” Jehu drawled.
The moment stretched out.
“I see,” Mr. Biddle said coolly, eyeing William with something approaching distaste. “If Mr. Scudder says he brought the letter from Dr. Peck, I am inclined to believe him. I suggest you let the matter drop.” He turned to me. “You must please accept my apologies, Miss Peck. I was a great admirer of your father. This claim is clearly yours. I don’t believe we have any further business to discuss.”
William slumped back into his chair, defeated.
Afterward I grabbed Jehu and hugged him hard.
“Did you really know Papa?” I asked. Was it possible? Had he been one of those sailors who had stumbled drunkenly onto our doorstep to have his head stitched up all those years ago?
Jehu chuckled and said, “Let’s just say I heard stories about a surgeon who had a red-haired daughter who liked to jump on sailors’ bellies.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
or,
A Memorable Day
The Fourth of July dawned as bright as the bay itself.
We began setting up at daybreak, with all the guests at the hotel lending a hand, except, naturally, Sally, who was spending her morning getting ready for the big event. I could only imagine what she was going to wear.
Jehu and I had stayed up late the previous evening discussing the future. After his attempt to take my claim, it was pretty clear that Mr. Biddle was not going to finance the mill.
“What will you do now?” I asked.
“I’ll go to San Francisco and look up Johnson,” Jehu said with a good-natured shrug. “The old man’s bound to know someone who can help us.” Captain Johnson was Jehu’s old boss.
Now, as I worked in the kitchen, loading food onto platters, I hoped that Jehu would be able to find someone to finance the mill. The back door opened, and the next thing I knew, I felt myself enveloped in a furry embrace. I pulled away and looked up at the face peeking out from the cape.
“Mr. Hairy!”
“Howdy, Miss Peck,” the unrepentant thief said. Hairy Bill’s eyes alighted on a platter piled high with fried chicken. “Hmm, that sure looks mighty tasty.”
I smacked his hand away. “That is for the party this afternoon.”
He pulled his face. “I’ll never make it till then. I’ll die of starvation!”
I shook my head and pushed the plate toward him.
“Where have you been?” I demanded as he immediately began to demolish a chicken leg.
“Here and there,” he answered as he gnawed at the bone.
“Mr. Hairy!”
“I been staying at Jehu’s cabin,” he muttered.
“Jehu’s cabin?” I stared at him with dawning realization. “It wasn’t Keer-ukso snoring. It was you!”
He looked down at his plate. “Could be.”
“But why were you hiding out at Jehu’s cabin?” I asked.
Hairy Bill pulled a face. “Come on now, Miss Peck. I show up in town and whiskey gets stolen. Who do you think they’re gonna blame, huh? Why, I bet even you thought it was me.”
“I did not,” I protested, feeling ashamed of having thought that very thing.
“Didn’t hurt me none to lay low for a while, and besides, I helped finish that house of yours.” He reached in his pocket and tugged out a letter. “Oh, this is yours.”
I turned the envelope over in my hand. It was my letter from Papa, the one that had been in my trunk. I stared at my father’s signature for a long moment.
“Mr. Hairy,” I said, suspicious. “You didn’t have anything to do with my claim, did you?”
“Now, where would you get an idea like that?” He blinked at me innocently. “You know I can barely write out an I.O.U.”
“I suppose so,” I said, turning away.
And then he chuckled and murmured, “But I sure can copy good.”
Even though I had not received a formal invitation, I would still be attending the festivities. As concierge of the hotel I was responsible for overseeing the food. I wore my gold silk dress and arranged my hair.
Sally, never one to be outdone, swept downstairs wearing a magnificent blue dress with flounces of scalloped lace, her blond curls arranged to perfection.
She looked around the parlor with irritation.
“Why has nothing been set up as I directed?” she snapped at Millie. “The tables are supposed to be inside.”
Millie shrugged. “Mrs. Frink said to set up outside.”
I watched as Sally flounced out to the front porch, where Mrs. Frink was directing the men.
“Mrs. Frink,” Sally said, her tone sharp, “what is going on? I distinctly recall deciding that the tables were to be set up inside.”
Mrs. Frink pursed her lips at Sally. “Yes, well, I felt that your plans were a little … how shall I put it? Vulgar and low-class. So I have made a few changes.”
Sally paled a little and then turned on her heel and walked back into the hotel.
The rain stayed away and the day grew warm, sultry even. People began arriving, and not just those people who had been on Sally’s guest list. It seemed as if the entire territory had turned out for the celebration.
“Willard,” I asked. “Exactly how many invitations did you deliver?”
“None,” he confessed sheepishly. “I forgot.”
In spite of Willard’s forgetfulness, or perhaps because of it, the Fourth of July celebration drew a large crowd. Chief Toke and his tribe arrived, bearing strings of salmon. Mr. Staroselsky delivered a huge barrel of pickles. Fresh oysters were piled high on one of the tables, and for once I found them delicious. Perhaps they were like Shoalwater Bay: an acquired taste. To no one’s surprise Red Charley rolled out several casks of whiskey.
William was nowhere to be seen, having left town rather urgently on business for the governor, or so he had told Mr. Frink.
“Good riddance,” Millie said.
Chief Toke came up to me during a quiet moment.
“Boston Jane,” he said, putting his hand on my shoulder. “Thank you. For my granddaughter.”
“It wasn’t me. Mrs. Frink was the one who saved the day,” I protested.
He looked me in the eye. “You were the one who stood up to William, and that is what matters.”
“Maybe next year we can get Mr. Swan elected to replace him. I don’t see why you shouldn’t have a vote,” I added with a laugh. “Or me either, for that matter.”
“I shan’t be running,” Mr. Swan said from nearby, almost teary eyed. “This is my last Fourth of July on the bay.”
“You should write a book, Mr. Swan, to remember it by,” I suggested.
“What a capital idea! Perhaps I can even make some money on it,” he said, his voice excited.
“Be sure to put me in it,” I said.
“Of course, dear girl,” he promised.
Sally, clearly put out that her plans were not being adhered to, sat at a table on the porch with her mother beside her, waving her fan and looking faintly irritated.
I was standing at the table where the food had been laid out, getting myself a cup of tea, when the ladies from the sewing circle arrived. Sally immediately walked over, as if she were the hostess of the party.
They were talking among themselves, but I could hear them clearly.
“Hello, ladies!” Sally declared in a shrill voice.
Mrs. Staroselsky’s eyes flicked over Sally’s dress. “What a charming ensemble, Miss Biddle.”
“Why, thank you,” Sally said, preening.
“I can’t imagine that I should even know how to order fabric so pretty,” Mrs. Staroselsky declared. “After all, I have horrible taste.”
Sally looked startled but quickly recovered. “Why don’t you all get something to eat and then join Mother and me at our table.”
“The cake looks delicious,” Mrs. Woodley said, and then stared hard at Sally. “But perhaps I shouldn’t eat it. I wouldn’t want to get any fatter.”
Sally swallowed and smiled brightly at Mrs. Hosmer.
“Mrs. Hosmer, do come join Mother and me,” she said.
“I’m so sorry, Sally,” Mrs. Hosmer said. “But I wouldn’t want to bore you with my tedious conversation.”
Sally went so pale that she looked as if she were about to faint.
Quite undone, she whirled around and ran straight into me, spilling my tea all over her fine dress.
We both stood there for a long moment, and then Sally sobbed and ran into the hotel.
Mrs. Staroselsky came up behind me, carrying Rose. “Tut tut, such a clumsy girl.”
“And not very nice at all,” Mrs. Woodley added.
“We are all so very sorry, Jane,” Mrs. Hosmer said sincerely, taking my hands. “Please forgive us.”
The Claim Page 15