A Most Unsuitable Match

by Stephanie Whitson

  Fannie jumped up and threw her arms around Hannah. “Thank you.” She kissed the old woman on the cheek.

  Hannah hugged her back, even as she said, “See if you still want to thank me after we’ve been on that river for a month.”

  Abstain from all appearance of evil.

  1 THESSALONIANS 5:22

  The sun had just begun to streak the horizon with golden bars of light when the Delores’s whistle shrieked, and Fannie exited the cabin she and Hannah would share throughout the long journey. With a chorus of shouts from the roustabouts casting off her lines, the shabby vessel backed away from the St. Charles landing and headed into the river channel.

  As the span of brown water between the deck and the shore grew wider, Hannah came to stand alongside her at the railing. Taking a deep breath, she said, “I do believe we’re gonna have us a fine spring day. Would you look at that shore go by. I declare, it’s almost like flying.”

  Fannie picked at a bit of paint flaking off the rail in front of her. “More like limping.”

  “Where’s my adventure-seeking little gal?”

  Fannie forced a nervous laugh. “Back on the levee.” She blinked away tears as she looked toward home. “Do you think Minette will ever speak to me again? What will Mr. Hennessey and Mr. Beauvais think? What will Mr. Vandekamp do?”

  “Mr. Vandekamp won’t be able to do anything,” Hannah said. “Not without Minnette’s pa and fiancé agreeing to it. Those letters you left made that clear.” She smiled. “As for Miss Minette, she will likely be upset. I believe this is the first foolish thing you’ve ever done without her. She won’t appreciate being left behind.”

  Fannie choked back a laugh. Hannah was likely right about Minette. She’d be upset, but she’d understand. Minette always understood. The men, on the other hand …

  Her voice wavered. “I’ve asked a lot of Mr. Hennessey and Minette’s father.”

  “Nothing they didn’t offer.” Hannah chuckled. “I suppose it’s wrong of me, but I can’t help but enjoy the picture of Mr. Vandekamp learning the news. He’s gonna hate having Mr. Hennessey and Minette’s papa looking over his shoulder.” She sniffed. “Wonder how he’ll like being dismissed.”

  “I would never have let that happen to you,” Fannie said. “You do know that, don’t you?”

  “I do,” Hannah said. “Besides, the man hasn’t been born who can separate me from my little miss.” She squeezed Fannie’s hand. They stood quietly for a few moments. Finally, Hannah gestured toward the sun-bathed shoreline. “I never thought I’d see anything farther west than St. Charles, and here we are, sliding by all kind of places and headed for Montana. Indians … buffalo … tepees!” Her eyes shone with excitement. “We’re gonna be just fine, little miss. You’ll see.”

  “So … you don’t think I’m a fool?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Hannah teased. “But land sakes, child, if the good Lord couldn’t use fools and foolishness, he wouldn’t get much done.”

  Fannie forced a smile. She didn’t know all that much about how “the good Lord” did things, but Hannah’s enthusiasm did help her feel better. “I didn’t think we’d be the only women on board,” she said, gazing behind them and up the row of mostly empty cabins.

  “I doubt that’ll last,” Hannah said. “How many stops are on that card the captain gave you?”

  Fannie reached in the small silk purse dangling from her wrist and pulled the card out. Distances on Missouri River from St. Louis to … Two columns listed stops along the way. “At least three dozen,” Fannie said, and handed the card to Hannah.

  “Eighty-nine miles to Washington,” she read aloud. “Four hundred five to Kansas City.” She looked up. “Bet we take on some ladies in Kansas City.” Glancing back down at the card in her hand, she shook her head as she read off, “ ‘Two thousand, six hundred, sixty-three miles. Seems like Fort Benton must be halfway to heaven and back.’ ”

  The whistle sounded again. Fannie wondered how many more she would hear before St. Charles came into view again. Before she saw Minette again … and had to face Mr. Vandekamp. Would she have met Aunt Edith by then? Would she have answers to some of her questions about her parents?

  She looked down at the river, taking little comfort in the notion that the water wasn’t deep. Halfway to heaven, that’s what Hannah had said about the distance they were about to travel. Fannie only hoped she wasn’t taking them halfway to Hades.

  It was time to read Aunt Edith’s letters again.

  Whether it was Samuel’s size or Lamar’s skin color that did the trick, none of the other hands or deck passengers challenged the two bunking beneath a wagon bound for Fort Claggett. It was the least crowded square footage on the entire main deck, and Samuel was not only happy to share it with Lamar Davis but also grateful for the old man’s companionship. There was just something about the old guy. Something peaceful.

  Hauling wood was hard on Lamar, and they had to haul a lot of it. The Delores’s three boilers had an insatiable appetite for the stuff, burning through so many cords a day Samuel lost count. The steamer stopped twice a day to take on wood. Even though Lamar’s weathered face often contorted with pain as he worked, a low hum accompanied just about everything he did.

  “How do you do that?” Samuel finally asked.

  “Do what?”

  “Take everything in stride. You never get riled. You keep calm no matter how much Captain Busch yells. I see you’re hurting when we haul wood. But you hum. How do you do it?”

  Lamar chuckled. “Wasn’t always that way, son. I’m no saint. I just don’t have the energy for grumbling.” He nodded Samuel’s way. “Can’t say as I hear you complaining much, either, and I notice you’ve got nearly raw hands where you need callouses. I’d bet you’ve got a few aches and pains, too.”

  Samuel only shrugged. His propensity for complaining aloud had been erased long ago by the tip of Pa’s buggy whip. But just because Samuel didn’t make noise didn’t mean he didn’t think complaints. Lamar just plain didn’t seem to be bothered by things. That was what Samuel wanted to understand, if only they ever had a chance to really talk. But Lamar was snoring seconds after the two of them settled beneath the wagon each night, and Samuel barely made it through a page of his mother’s Bible before he followed suit. Some nights he didn’t even make it that far.

  In light of how quickly Lamar fell asleep, it was strange how attuned he was to the slightest change in the steamer. The first time they struck a sandbar, Lamar woke with the first tremor. Before Samuel had so much as raised his head, the older man was scooting out from beneath the wagon, tucking in his shirt, and hurrying off.

  Samuel moved slower, knowing that it would be at least a few minutes before the crew knew whether they were going to grasshopper or double trip. Lamar, on the other hand, would be up in the wheelhouse conferring with the captain and his mate about what to do this time. Busch might grumble and complain about the old man’s slowness at hauling, but he respected Lamar’s good sense and valued his opinion.

  Delays were a normal part of the journey, but that didn’t mean Captain Busch accepted them without a fight. As the days passed, Samuel learned firsthand just how many things there were to fight. Sunshine was pleasant for everyone, but at the right angle the glare could obscure the surface of the water. That made it difficult to judge the speed of the current and to read swirls and ripples indicating rocks and snags lurking below. Rain not only made everyone miserable but also erased any ability to read the water. Wind could actually topple the top-heavy shallow-drafted vessel. Captain Busch seemed to take all of nature’s tricks as a personal affront, piloting with a combination of bravado and brilliance that had won him no small measure of fame in the river towns bordering the fickle Missouri River.

  Samuel had just settled beneath the wagon one evening when Lamar came to fetch him. “Water level’s high, moon’s full, captain’s going to take us into St. Joe by moonlight. I volunteered us to help mark the channel.”

&
nbsp; Pulling his suspenders back up, Samuel followed Lamar to the mackinaw boat where the mate was already waiting. The men shoved off. Samuel thrust a long pole into the river, seeking bottom and sounding the depth. Even loaded with two hundred tons of freight and thirty passengers, the Delores only needed waist-high water to navigate.

  As Samuel poked the mackinaw upstream, Lamar and the mate marked a channel with lighted candles affixed to bits of scrap lumber. A length of rope and a stone weighted the floats so they’d remain in place as the steamer slid past, and paper cylinders set down over the candles kept the flames from blowing out.

  There was little time to appreciate the aesthetics of the flickering lights marking a pathway for the Delores, but at some point Samuel realized that passengers had collected both on the prow and above on the hurricane deck to watch the spectacle. And it was a spectacle. The full moon had transformed the tawny river into a silver ribbon. In the moonlight, the belching ship almost looked romantic, like a timeworn lady of the night made beautiful by lamplight.

  “It’s called ‘eating up the lights.’ ”

  The deep voice came from just over her shoulder. Fannie jumped and whirled about, looking up into eyes so dark they were almost black. Perhaps it was the hour. Or the fact that Hannah wasn’t there. Whatever it was, there was something about the man that made Fannie uncomfortable—in a fascinating kind of way.

  He stepped up to the railing next to her. “E. C. Dandridge at your service, madame.”

  Fannie had heard the name. Mr. Dandridge had come on board in Kansas City, but he hadn’t seen fit to dine in the saloon yet. That fact alone lent an air of mystery to the man. Broad shoulders and expensive clothing did the rest. Socializing was an important part of life aboard the slow-moving steamer, and E. C. Dandridge was a regular subject of conversation among the half-dozen ladies who gathered in the dining saloon every afternoon.

  Rumors about the man ranged from the ridiculous—he was a desperado just a few steps ahead of the law—to the sublime—he was a widower seeking solace from the torments of grief with an endless cycle of travel. Whatever the truth, the fact that Mr. Dandridge was standing close enough for her to catch the scent of his after-dinner cigar made Fannie feel awkward and self-conscious, even as she enjoyed his attention.

  “Please say that we will have the pleasure of your company for the entire journey, Miss Rousseau. It’s been a long while since anything as lovely as you graced the decks of the Delores.”

  Thankful for the moonlight’s ability to obscure her blush, Fannie stammered, “I-I didn’t realize you knew my name.” She glanced toward the cabin she shared with Hannah. And where was Hannah, anyway?

  “Any man worth his salt would make it his business to inquire about a lady as lovely as you.” Dandridge paused before adding, “I had you figured for an officer’s wife bound for one of the forts upriver. Captain Busch set me straight on that issue.” He paused again. “He seems to have taken you under his wing. I shall have to be very careful.”

  What did he mean by that? Careful? About what? “I assume the captain told you that I am headed for one of the forts, though. Fort Benton.”

  Mr. Dandridge was quiet for a moment, then murmured, “Ah … Fort Benton. I assume this will be your first visit?”

  How does he know that? And why was it so hard to look at him, even in the moonlight, without feeling flustered? She concentrated on the meandering pathway of floating lanterns on the river. “Isn’t that lovely,” she murmured.

  Dandridge agreed, although Fannie didn’t think he was looking at the river when he did so. Suddenly, he moved away slightly and said, “Miss Rousseau’s companion, I presume?” He touched the brim of his top hat and introduced himself to Hannah. “I understand you two are bound for Fort Benton. My partner and I are opening a business there.”

  Hannah introduced herself. “Mrs. Hannah Pike. Nursemaid, housekeeper, traveling companion … and defender, when necessary.”

  Mr. Dandridge laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He tugged on his mustache as he leaned toward Hannah and said in mock confidence, “I’ve noticed the lady has been the object of more than a little attention from belowdecks. It’s good to know she has a friend looking out for her. I’d offer myself as a second if I thought there was a chance you’d accept my references.”

  “Happy to accept,” Hannah said, with what Fannie thought sounded like forced pleasantness, “as long as the references include a minister of the gospel, a missionary, and a seminary professor.” She touched Fannie’s arm. “I do apologize for putting an end to a lovely conversation, little miss, but I’m certain Mr. Dandridge will excuse us.” She nodded toward the river. “Looks like we’re about to tie up for the night.”

  Indeed they were. Fannie hadn’t really noticed, but the mackinaw was back alongside, most of the floating candles behind them now. Tipping his hat, Dandridge bowed and took his leave.

  Fannie followed Hannah into their tiny cabin, where Hannah harrumphed. “What on earth were you thinking, taking up with a man like that?”

  “I wasn’t ‘taking up’ with anyone, and what do you mean ‘a man like that’? He was … interesting. If he’s opening a business in Fort Benton, he might have an idea of how I can locate Aunt Edith.”

  Hannah fluffed a pillow—although it looked more like punching than fluffing. “You will encounter all kinds of interesting men on this journey, little miss. Men who are nothing like the boys who bowed and scraped to get the favor of a dance with you in St. Charles. A top hat and a stiff collar may dress up the outside of a man, but they don’t change who he really is. And mark my words, the man inside Mr. E. C. Dandridge’s fine suit is not a man you want to associate with.”

  “How can you possibly know that?” Fannie pulled the tiny purse that had been dangling from her wrist off and tossed it onto her cot. “We were just talking. He was passing by where I was standing watching the crew float those lights on the river. It would have been rude of him not to say something.”

  “It would have been rude of him not to tip his hat. It was rude to linger when you haven’t been introduced and you were without an escort. He took advantage, and I’m quite certain he knew he was doing exactly that.” Hannah sniffed. “You do recall that he stepped back away from you when I walked up? He knew he was being fresh.”

  Fannie rolled her eyes. “How on earth could standing at the railing in plain sight of everyone else and within a few feet of my ‘nursemaid, housekeeper, traveling companion, and defender’ be considered taking advantage?”

  “It is none of that man’s business where you are headed or why or with whom.”

  Fannie sighed and sat down on the edge of her cot. “But he might know something about Aunt Edith.”

  Hannah sat down opposite her. “If he’s headed all the way to Fort Benton, there will be plenty of time for you to speak with him when the two of you are in proper company. It’s not as if you’re hard to find, little miss. We dine in the saloon three times a day. If he wants to be sociable, there is a correct way to do that. And that way is not to approach a young lady standing by herself in the dead of night, looking out on a romantic moonlit river bedecked with floating candles.”

  Forsake the foolish, and live; and go in the way of understanding.

  PROVERBS 9:6

  Once the Delores left Nebraska City, the sky turned gray and the weather bleak. The journey took on a sameness that dampened Fannie’s visions of a grand adventure. But then Mr. Dandridge began to dine with the rest of the passengers. He even condescended to read aloud to the ladies’ sewing circle on an occasional afternoon while they knitted and pieced quilt blocks, tatted, and crocheted. For the first time, Fannie was grateful Hannah had seen fit to pack their needle cases and a few projects.

  One afternoon, when Mr. Dandridge had concluded his reading of Mr. Dickens’s Great Expectations, he asked Fannie to “take the air.” Not unaware of the jealous glances some of the sewing circle ladies cast her way, Fannie accepted. Hannah had re
tired to take a nap, and as she and Mr. Dandridge paced back and forth along the hurricane deck, Fannie plied him with questions about Fort Benton.

  “I’m afraid anything I’d have to say about the place might result in your abandoning the Delores at the next stop,” he said. “To be quite honest, I can’t imagine what Captain Busch was thinking to encourage you.”

  “He didn’t encourage me,” she said. “He merely realized he couldn’t stop me.” She was sounding much stronger than she felt, but something made her want to seem independent and decisive.

  “I admire your courage.”

  “I’m not courageous,” Fannie blurted out. “Half the time I’m scared to death. But every time I doubt myself I read one of my aunt’s letters and it reminds me—” She broke off and asked Mr. Dandridge to wait while she went to get Aunt Edith’s photograph.

  When Hannah roused long enough to ask if everything was all right, Fannie reassured her with a very small fib about wanting to show Aunt Edith’s photograph to “someone in the sewing circle.” When Fannie handed Mr. Dandridge the photograph, something flickered in his dark eyes. “Have you seen her, then?” she asked.

  Dandridge looked up. “I can’t say for certain. Her face reminds me of someone, but … Fort Benton’s citizenry doesn’t include anyone of this woman’s obvious social standing. At least it didn’t when I left last fall. It’s still very … primitive.”

  There was no need to repeat what Captain Busch had said about Aunt Edie heading off into the mountains with a group of miners. At least not to Mr. Dandridge. And besides, who knew what romantic adventure a beautiful woman like Edith LeClerc might have encountered in a wilderness populated by Indians and soldiers. She could have found her one true love. “Couldn’t she be an officer’s wife?”

  “There are no soldiers at Fort Benton, Miss Rousseau. It acquired its name when Major Culbertson of the American Fur Company oversaw the construction of an adobe stockade with three-foot-thick walls and a massive gate—for a fur trading post. If you were picturing a military stockade and a parade ground, I’m afraid you’re going to be very disappointed.” He returned the photograph. “I don’t think there are more than a dozen white women in all of Fort Benton, and the ones I know are nothing like the refined lady in that photograph,” he paused, smiling into her eyes, “and nothing like you.”