The carriage stopped in front of a two-story, white frame house. Flowers bordered the walkway that split the grassy lawn. Cane rocking chairs on the porch gave the place an inviting look. A sign over the door read Miss Priscilla’s Boarding-house. And just beneath that was another sign: Vacancy.
“You’ll be safe here,” Mikal said, alighting from the carriage and swinging Margaret down beside him. “I’ll help you make the arrangements before we unload your trunk.”
Inside, Margaret met Miss Priscilla, a charming lady who ran an immaculate establishment. Mikal waited in the parlor while the two ladies went up the staircase to inspect the room.
Miss Priscilla paused at the head of the staircase and used a key to unlock the first door on her left. She held it wide and waited for Margaret to enter ahead of her. “This is it.”
Margaret’s eyes took in everything at a glance. The furniture, though not elegant, appeared comfortable and substantial. Crisp organdy curtains fluttered at the one open window facing the street. An oak washstand stood beside the iron bed frame and held a large china basin and pitcher. An oak chest of drawers and a small rocking chair were the only other furnishings. Several oval rag rugs graced the otherwise bare, whitewashed floor. Two large candlesticks rested on round lace doilies atop the dresser.
“There’s a tub at the end of the hall. If you’ll be wanting a bath, I’ll have it filled for you, but that will be fifty cents extra.”
“Oh, yes! I do want a bath.”
“If you decide to take the room,” Miss Priscilla continued, “I serve a hot breakfast in the dining room each morning at seven o’clock. If you should oversleep and miss breakfast, you will find fruit juice and crackers on the sideboard, but I do not cook but once.”
“I understand. And I’ll take the room,” Margaret said without hesitation.
“One more thing,” her landlady stated firmly. “No male visitors will be allowed in your room. Your friend is not to go beyond the parlor.”
Margaret flushed. “Of course not.” What kind of lady does she think I am? Margaret wondered. She held up her skirts and followed her landlady back down the stairs.
Mikal watched Margaret descend the wooden staircase. She was a beautiful woman, and his heart went out to her in all her troubles. He prayed that he could find some way to help her. “Well, Margaret, what do you think?”
“I’m staying,” she told him, “and I don’t know how to thank you for all your help.”
“No thanks are necessary. I assure you, it is my pleasure. I’ll have your trunk taken up to your room, and then I’ll be on my way, but just remember what I’ve told you, Margaret. Turn all your troubles over to God, and try not to worry. I’ll be back to check on you before noon tomorrow.”
Mikal helped the driver carry the heavy trunk up the stairs, and the two men placed it at the foot of the bed, while Margaret stood in the hallway giving them directions.
At last everything was settled, and Mikal climbed back into the horse-drawn carriage.
Margaret stood on the porch and waved until the carriage was out of sight. Mikal Lee had spread a temporary cloak of security around her, and even though a thousand unanswered questions whirled through her mind, she knew that she had found a dependable friend to lean on.
She returned to the room that was now her home, without even the slightest premonition of the precarious situation in which her headstrong actions had placed her.
two
Unfamiliar sounds dragged Margaret from a puzzling dream. She had been standing on a swaying deck surrounded by rolling whitecaps as far as the eye could see. As the schooner skimmed through the waves toward shore, she could see Allen Fairchild on the dock with both hands in the air, waving to her. But what she could not understand was why his hair was no longer black—the dark strands had mysteriously changed to blond, the color of fine corn silk, curling softly where it met the edge of his collar.
As she struggled into awareness, she realized that she wasn’t swaying at all, and the noises she heard were more akin to street sounds than ocean waves.
Morning sun filtered through the white organdy curtains and slanted across the bedroom. Margaret sat up and rubbed her eyes. It took her several minutes to reconstruct the events that had led her to this unfamiliar place, but now she remembered it all: Mikal Lee had brought her here to Miss Priscilla’s Boardinghouse, and he had promised to return today to help her find Allen Fairchild.
The clatter of dishes and the aroma of coffee floated up from downstairs, reminding her that she had not eaten since yesterday noon. Now her stomach rumbled to protest its emptiness.
She had been too tired and distraught to even think of food last night; she barely remembered having her bath and tumbling into bed. As she had sunk her head into the goose-down pillow, Mikal’s words about turning over her problems to God had echoed in her mind. It was a fact that she surely needed someone to turn them over to, but she doubted that God would listen to her. She had not tried to communicate with Him in a very long time. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to try.
Her last waking thoughts were of trying to recall the prayers her mother had taught her before her sudden and untimely death. But Margaret had been only six years old when her mother died, and now she could not get beyond “Now I lay me down to sleep.”
At that point, sleep had claimed her mind and body and plunged her into a night of senseless dreams. Now in the light of morning, she still felt tired. Mikal had promised that things would seem better today. Perhaps they would after she placated her growling stomach with a hearty breakfast.
The bare floor felt cold against her feet. She stood on a rag rug to open her trunk and choose her clothes for the day.
Wistfully, she eyed her trousseau dresses, all carefully folded and packed in happy anticipation of her life in a new world with Allen Fairchild. She had spent many long hours standing patiently before her Savannah dressmaker while the skilled seamstress measured and pinned, unsatisfied with anything less than a perfect fit.
Passing through the streets of Tampa yesterday, Margaret had been surprised at the plain way the local women seemed to dress. Margaret had never owned anything that even remotely resembled their homespun attire. She selected the most simple gown in her trunk: a yellow faille dress with a high, unadorned neckline, and decided that she would wear only one crinoline beneath her skirts today.
She lifted her new, lace-trimmed chemise and pantalettes from the tissue in which she had wrapped them and began to dress for breakfast. She hoped that Miss Priscilla would have a nice, fresh omelet and a bowl of hot grits! Hot tea would be nice, too. My, she was hungry!
Her skirts rustled as she descended the stairs, causing the olive-skinned maid to pause from her chores and look up. “Oh, mornin’, miss!”
“Good morning,” Margaret replied politely. “Where should I sit for breakfast?”
“Oh, miss, I’m very sorry. Breakfast was served at seven, and it’s now half after eight. But there’s some fresh-squeezed orange juice on the sideboard. I picked the oranges and squeezed them myself this morning,” she ended proudly.
“But. . .but. . .why wasn’t I called? Where is Miss Priscilla? I must speak to her at once!”
“Miss Priscilla, she left to go to market ’bout ten minutes ago, but she’ll be back directly. Oh, missy, I’m real sorry you didn’t know ’bout the time. You pour yourself some juice and sit down here at the table, and I’ll go out to the kitchen and see if I can get you a biscuit, but you mustn’t tell Miss Priscilla!”
With a wink of her dark eyes, the petite maid disappeared, and Margaret sat alone at the long, wooden table. Her thoughts drifted to Savannah, where her father was probably this very minute sitting at his own dining table, enjoying his third cup of coffee while he read the morning newspaper. She could almost smell the bacon and eggs!
Margaret was munching on a cold, dry biscuit, washing it down with a tall glass of orange juice, when Mikal arrived.
“I hope I haven’t kept y
ou waiting,” he said as he drew up a chair beside her. “I had to see to some things on the Windsong before I could leave.”
“No, I just got up. I’m afraid I overslept breakfast,” she ad-mitted with a sheepish smile.
“Well, don’t worry about that. There’s a clean café between here and Fort Brooke. We can stop for food along the way.”
“No, this will be enough to sustain me. I’m anxious to get on to Fort Brooke to find Allen. Is it far from here?”
“Oh, no. We’re practically there now. You see, in 1824, when our government moved the Seminole Indians to a reservation near here, they built Fort Brooke and sent in army troops to oversee it. A few years back, Tampa was just a simple fishing village, but now that Fort Brooke has grown up around it, things are beginning to look more prosperous.”
“Indians? Are there Indians around here?” Margaret darted her eyes around the room as though she half-expected to see a red-skinned warrior lurking in one of the corners.
“Well, of course there are. Lots of them. But these days, you aren’t likely to see any of them walking down the street. Under orders from President Andrew Jackson, the government is forcing all the Seminole Indians to relocate to Oklahoma, and many of them simply refuse to go. They’re willing to risk their lives to stay in their native homeland, and many have gone into hiding in the woods. That’s what this conflict between the army and the Seminoles is all about.”
“Yes, Allen explained that to me, but I didn’t realize—” Margaret lowered her voice to a whisper. “Is the maid here an Indian?”
Mikal laughed. “No, she’s a Spanish señorita—or maybe she’s a señora. In any case, you’ll see lots of Spanish people around these parts. Remember, this territory belonged to Spain until 1821. If you live here for very long, you’ll probably learn to speak their language.”
When pigs fly! Margaret finished her juice and biscuit without comment and wiped her lips on her napkin.
“Are you ready, then? I have a carriage waiting outside.”
“Just let me run upstairs and get my bonnet and reticule. I’ll be right back down.”
Margaret returned to her room and lifted a yellow baize bonnet from her trunk. She adjusted it over her hair and tied it beneath her chin by its satin ribbons. She picked up her black velvet reticule from the dresser and hurried downstairs, locking her bedroom door behind her.
As she started down the stairs, she experienced a strange mixture of anticipation and apprehension. What will I really feel when I come face to face with Allen Fairchild again?
Mikal held the front door open for her and led her down the walk. He helped her into the waiting hackney and gave directions to the driver before he climbed up and took his seat be-side her.
As the carriage moved along the narrow, dirt street, Margaret was interested in everything around her. Was this strange place now to be her home? Women with baskets over their arms walked the streets with small children clinging to their calico skirts. Most wore beehive bonnets to shade their faces from the bright morning sun. The carriage blew up a flurry of dust in its wake, and street vendors ran along beside it shouting their wares.
A child no more than six, a thin, ragamuffin little girl, raced alongside the hackney, shouting to be heard above the noise of the wheels. “Flowers, mister? Flowers for the lady?” She clutched a pitiful bouquet of wildflowers in her hand. In her effort to keep up with the carriage, she stumbled on the stones in the road and sprawled headlong into the dirt, scattering her flowers on the street.
“Stop!” Mikal called to the driver. When the carriage wheels slowed to a standstill, he climbed down and lifted the little girl to her feet. He used his handkerchief to brush the dust from her skinned knees and her tattered skirt. “Are you all right?”
Wide, frightened eyes met his, and the child only nodded. As she groped for her fallen flowers, Mikal took them from her and placed some coins in her hand. “I need these for the lady,” he explained.
The little girl rewarded him with a wide, snaggle-toothed grin before she ran happily down the street, clutching the money in her tiny hand, calling, “Mama! Mama, look! The man buyed all my flowers! See what he gived me?”
Smiling, Mikal swung himself back into the carriage and waited until they were well along the way before he tossed the wilted bouquet out onto the ground.
“Is that child someone you know?” Margaret asked.
“No, I’ve never seen her before. But this is a very poor area. Many of the settlers who’ve come down here believing this to be a land of opportunity are having a hard time just getting by.”
The houses they passed were little more than shanties. Margaret could not imagine setting up housekeeping in one of them. The few stores sprinkled along the road were simple, whitewashed structures, and Margaret saw nothing that evenly remotely compared to Marshall’s Emporium in Savannah.
An open-air market was crowded with men, women, and children bartering for produce and other merchandise.
Although theirs was the only carriage on the road, men on horseback traveled in both directions, causing street dust to rise like a great, persistent cloud. Margaret pulled a lace-edged handkerchief from her reticule and covered her nose, but the dust seemed to penetrate the cloth, causing her to cough. “Are those men on horses real cowboys?” she asked.
“Cowhunters,” Mikal corrected. “That’s what they’re called in the territory. They build up their herds by gathering wild cattle and claim ownership by branding them.”
“They all seem to carry guns. Are they outlaws?”
“I suppose some of them might be, but most are just honest, hard-working men trying to make a living for their families. The guns are for protection, but not just from outlaws. They have to worry about rattlesnakes and wolves and. . .” Suddenly seeming to sense Margaret’s growing alarm, he hastened to add, “The cowhunters have to go way out through the woods and in the swamps in places you won’t ever be likely to go. They have to be prepared for most anything.”
The road became even bumpier as they moved along. Like a washboard, Margaret thought.
At last, the road ended at a wide, wooden façade that stretched across the road. A sign spanned the top, with letters burned into the wood proclaiming this to be Fort Brooke.
Mikal stepped down from the carriage and talked to the guard at the gate. Margaret could not hear their words, but she could see that they were involved in a heated discussion. After several minutes, the soldier opened the gates and let them pass through.
“That wooden building over there is the office of the base commander,” Mikal called to his driver. As they drew up to the colorless structure, Margaret noted that the stark landscape was relieved by neither trees nor shrubbery. A hitching post by the front door secured one lone horse.
“You wait in the carriage, and I’ll go inside to see what I can find out,” Mikal told her.
“No, I want to come with you. I want to find out where Allen is.”
It would have been useless for Mikal to protest, because Margaret was already scrambling out of the carriage behind him.
The office was nothing more than one small room cluttered with books and papers. A rotund officer rose from behind the only desk and eyed them suspiciously. “I am Major Copper-field. What can I do for you?”
Before Mikal could explain the situation, Margaret pushed him aside. “I’ve come to see Captain Allen Fairchild. I know he is here somewhere! Where are you keeping him?” Her voice bordered on hysteria.
Major Copperfield looked at her in disbelief. “Madam, who sent you here? We do not allow visitors inside the fort without a special pass. May I see yours?”
Mikal gently gripped Margaret’s arm and pulled her back from the desk. “Please, Margaret. Just sit down for a moment and let me talk to the major.”
The hours of stress, coupled with hunger, finally caught up with Margaret, and she collapsed onto the nearest chair and let Mikal take over to state her concerns to the commanding officer.
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“Major Copperfield,” Mikal began, “Miss Porter has come all the way from Savannah to meet her fiancé, Allen Fairchild. They are to be married, but when he was not at the dock to meet her last evening, she became concerned, and she has not yet heard from him since she arrived at the port of Tampa. Your sentry was kind enough to let us pass to see if you could help us locate the gentleman in question.”
Mikal’s calm manner seemed to placate the major, and he said, “I’ll see what I can do.” He stepped across the room and pulled out a box from the corner. Watching him riffle through the papers in the box, Mikal wondered how he could ever decipher its contents, but after several minutes the officer pulled a folder from the box. “Yes, here it is.”
Margaret rose and watched his expression as he turned the sheets in the folder. She held her breath and waited for him to tell her what she had come here to learn. Where is Allen Fairchild?
Major Copperfield did not speak at once. His face turned a purplish-red, and beads of perspiration stood out on his brow. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead. He turned the pages over in his hands and looked at them again and again, as though expecting the written words to change. The silence in the room lay as thick as a winter fog until he broke it at last by saying, “Madam, I think you should sit down to hear this.”
He could not meet her eyes as he told her the dreaded news. Captain Allen Fairchild had returned from his leave in Dec-ember only ten days before his company, under the direction of Major Francis Dade, met with a terrible misfortune. They were on their way north to Fort King on the coldest night in December. Halfway there, they were ambushed by a group of savage Indians, and when the bloody massacre ended, only three men lived to tell about it. The major finished by saying that two of the three survivors had since died from their wounds.
Margaret's Quest Page 2