by Alison Hart
“I will do no such thing.”
“Then I will hold my breath until—”
“You may do so, child, until your eyes pop out and roll across the deck like marbles.” He checked his watch. “Our responsibility is locating a comfortable room for your mother. However, I will see if Mister Jenkins can have Twist unloaded.”
“Thank you, sir!”
Half an hour later, Emma stepped from the gangplank onto the Lexington wharf. Steamboats lined the Missouri as far as she could see. Dark-skinned slaves, shouting peddlers, and busy deckhands surged around her. She trotted alongside the Sally May, searching for Twist. She glimpsed a flash of red. Patrick? She called his name, but the red disappeared behind a canvas sheet.
“Emma, stop that yelling!” Doctor Burton hollered over the noise. “I have given orders for the pony to be delivered.” He was overseeing a roustabout who unloaded their bags from a handcart. Kathleen was helping Mama into a carriage.
“Delivered where?”
“To our destination. Now come before you fall into the river and we must fish you out like a carp.”
Reluctantly, Emma left the Sally May. The doctor helped her into a waiting carriage, which was pulled by a handsome bay. The three ladies sat in the back seat, a fur robe draped over their laps. When the roustabout finished loading their baggage, Doctor Burton climbed up and sat beside the driver. “Where is our destination anyway?” Emma asked as the bay trotted from the wharf.
“Away from the incessant noise and smoke of the steamboats,” Doctor Burton said over his shoulder. “Lexington is a prosperous town. My uncle owns several mercantile stores and a fine dwelling. We will be his guests for the night.”
Emma rubbed the curly lap robe. “Mama, is this buffalo skin? Are we in the Wild West?”
Her mother only clutched the side of the carriage, wincing with each jostle of the wheels.
“That is lambskin, not buffalo,” Doctor Burton said.
“But this is the West.” Emma leaned her head over the side to get a better view. “Perhaps Daniel Boone is here.”
“Daniel Boone has been dead for many years,” Doctor Burton corrected. “Lexington is not some crude frontier town. It’s a civilized city.” He swept his arm in the air. “Here there are factories, churches, colleges, and a courthouse to rival the one in St. Louis.”
“Oh.” Disappointed, Emma slumped back onto the seat. The carriage rattled down a main street lined with stores, offices, and shops. Fashionable ladies with bustles strode along the sidewalks carrying their parasols. Trailing along behind them were Negroes carrying baskets of goods, not Indians wielding hatchets.
The city is similar to St. Louis, Emma thought with a sigh. But then she perked up. Beyond the buildings, a wagon train wound up a hill like a snake. “Look, Mama. Wagons, like the kind Papa will buy for our journey.”
“They probably belong to the trading firm of Russell, Majors, and Waddell,” Doctor Burton explained. “The wagons carry goods to Oregon and California. My uncle trains and sells mules to pull them.”
The carriage rumbled through the town and continued past fields, newly plowed and planted. The leaves on the trees were green with spring and wildflowers dotted the pastures. Emma breathed deeply. They’d only been on the Sally May for a week, but it felt like forever.
“Mama, will Papa find us way out here?” Emma asked, but Mama’s eyes were closed and her head wobbled as if she were asleep. “Doctor Burton, will Twist find us way out here?”
“Enough with your questions. Be patient, child.”
Leaning forward, Emma spoke to Kathleen, who sat on the other side of Mama. “Will Patrick be all right alone on the boat?”
Kathleen nodded, but her pursed lips told Emma she wasn’t offering any news about her brother. Finally the carriage stopped in front of a stately three-story brick home. Columns framed the marble steps, which rose to a wide carved door. A red-faced man with black muttonchops covering most of his cheeks hurried down a brick path. Doctor Burton introduced Emma and her mother to Mister Phineas Burton, boasting that his uncle was one of the largest traders and slave owners in Missouri. Emma took in the man’s barrel girth and decided that “largest” was a most appropriate description.
A slave unloaded their bags and then followed behind as they walked down the brick path. When they entered the hallway, they were greeted by two rows of curtsying and bowing Negroes.
“Mama, we don’t believe in slavery, do we?” Emma whispered.
Mama placed a finger on her lips. “Hush, sweetheart. Thank you, Mister Burton, for inviting us into your lovely home,” she said politely. “It is a welcome respite from the rigors of river travel.”
“Please call me Phineas,” he said. “Your husband is a good friend of mine, Missus Wright.”
While they exchanged courtesies, Emma looked around. Her family’s home in St. Louis had been modern and comfortable, but nothing as grand as Mister Phineas’s house. The floor of the entryway was black and white marble. A crystal chandelier dangled overhead and a walnut staircase spiraled to the next floor.
“Is this a mansion, Mister Phineas?” Emma asked.
“Emma! Mind your manners,” her mother scolded.
His eyes twinkled. “Yes, Miss Emma, it is the largest house in Lafayette County, designed by me and built brick by brick by my slaves.” He gestured upstairs. “Missus Wright, you and your daughter will sleep in the guest rooms on the second floor. Annie will show you the way and tend to your needs.” A young slave stepped forward and bobbed her head. “Your own servant girl can sleep in the quarters beyond the kitchen.”
“Thank you, Mister Burton, but Kathleen will sleep with us,” Mama said firmly.
Mister Phineas nodded. “As you wish.”
Mama and Kathleen started up the stairs, but Emma snuck out the open front door. She wanted to be outside and on the lookout for Twist. The sound of hooves rapping the dirt lane made her hurry down the steps. Trotting into view was a cart pulled by a swayback gray. A boy wearing a red jacket and cap sat in the cart bed. Tied behind the cart was a coal-black pony.
Twist and Patrick! With a squeal of joy, Emma dashed down the walkway to greet them, wildly waving her arms and shouting their names for all to hear.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Mama sent me to bed with no supper,” Emma told Patrick as the two brushed her pony the next morning. “Punishment for acting like a hooligan when I saw you and Twist.”
They were in Mister Phineas’s stable, a huge barn with peaked cupolas and stalls for four carriage horses and twelve fancy riding horses. “I call them my Missouri trotters,” Mister Phineas had told her that morning. “Gaits as smooth as glass. They sell as fast as ice blocks in the summer.”
“Sorry ye caught trouble,” Patrick said. He was bent over, rubbing a dirty spot on Twist’s hind leg.
“Oh, I didn’t mind.” Emma smiled. “I rather enjoyed being a hooligan.”
Outside the stall door, a dozen slaves worked silently, raking the barn aisle. Last night, Twist had been placed in a large stall where he could stretch his legs. This morning, as soon as she awoke, Emma had led the pony outside so he could eat his fill of spring grass.
“And I didn’t care about missing supper, either,” Emma went on. “I was so glad to see Twist and….” She wanted to add you but she didn’t dare. Emma knew it would not be proper. And besides, Patrick was already swellheaded.
“But no supper?” Patrick pulled a lint-speckled biscuit from his pocket. “Ye can share me breakfast.”
“Thank you, but I ate this morning. We dined in a room the size of a concert hall, waited on by five Negroes. Mister Phineas made them stand at attention like soldiers. He’d snap his fingers when he wanted something. Can you imagine?”
Patrick gave her an odd look. “‘Tis no different than being a servant.”
“It is different,” Emma argued. “Mama pays Kathleen a wage. And at home, she never snapped orders at our servants.”
“Ye
r mother may not, but most do,” Patrick said. “That’s why Kathleen and me are going west to find our fortunes. One day we’ll sleep in our own house instead of in a barn with the slaves as I did last night.”
“Well, I’m going to ride,” Emma said, tired of the conversation. She attached two ropes to the pony’s halter rings. “Twist needs the exercise before we go back on the steamboat. Would you like to watch?”
“Ye have no bridle or saddle,” Patrick pointed out.
“Twist is so well-mannered he doesn’t need a bridle,” Emma said. “And I often ride with no saddle.” That was not completely true. Like the other girls in St. Louis from genteel families, she usually rode sidesaddle, a silly custom in her view. But a few times when no one was looking, Emma had straddled her pony bareback and ridden like a boy.
Opening the stall door, she led Twist outside. He trotted out happily, his ears pricked at the sights and his nose raised to the fresh breeze.
“My, you are glad to be off that boat,” she said, patting his glossy neck. She glanced over her shoulder. Patrick was following several steps behind. Emma wondered if he’d ever ridden a horse.
They walked down a dirt lane bordered by a fence. On both sides, mules with big floppy ears grazed in the lush grass. Emma looked around for something to climb up on. She wasn’t quite tall enough yet to mount on her own. Mister Tommy had always helped her.
She steered Twist beside the fence, climbed up two boards, and sprang onto the pony’s back. Instantly she squeezed the heels of her boots into her pony’s sides, and the two cantered down the lane. Her straw hat blew off, startling the mules. Twist gave a tiny buck, happy to be running in the open air.
Back in St. Louis, Mister Tommy had always made her trot in a ring. Sometimes he’d let her jump little fences. Always, he’d watched her with a cautious eye. Emma had never been allowed to canter free with the wind blowing through her hair and Twist’s mane. Excitement filled her. She whooped, pretending she was escaping from a band of Indian warriors. What fun! She couldn’t wait to ride across the prairie with Papa.
When they cantered back up the lane, she was grinning so wide her cheeks ached. “We outran those Apaches!” she exclaimed to Patrick, who sat on the top fence board staring at them. “Would you like to ride?” she asked.
“No.” His expression turned sullen and he shook his head. “Me family were too poor to own a horse.”
Emma slid off Twist. “Well, then, you need to learn how. You don’t want to walk to California, do you? Perhaps Mister Phineas will lend you one of his fancy Missouri trotters. Doctor Burton has already put in an order for two to be shipped to St. Joe for our trip west.”
Patrick ran his fingers along his cap brim, then abruptly jumped off the fence. “All right. But don’t be leading me like I’m a baby.” Grabbing Twist’s mane, he flung himself onto the pony’s back.
Emma handed him the rope reins and stepped away. She had to bite her tongue to keep from telling him what to do. Twist had carried enough beginners to know he needed to walk steadily. Soon Patrick was steering the pony in circles.
“See? It’s fun,” Emma said. “Try a trot. Make a clicking noise and hold onto the mane.”
“I don’t need to hold on,” Patrick retorted as Twist broke into a jog. Immediately he lost his balance and slipped sideways. “Whoa!” he hollered. The pony stopped and Patrick fell onto the ground like a sack of flour.
Emma pressed her fingers to her lips to hold back her laughter. She didn’t want his pride as bruised as his backside.
He sprang to his feet. “Getting off needs a bit of work, maybe, but I believe I have the hang of riding.”
Emma burst into giggles. “You do make me laugh, Patrick O’Brien. When we reach St. Joe, you can practice some—”
“Miss Emma!” Kathleen waved from the door of the barn. “We just got word that the Sally May departs this noon. Hurry, we’re loading the carriage.”
“Tell Mama I’ll be right there.” She thought of Papa. There hadn’t been time for him to meet them in Lexington. But soon she’d see him in Kansas City, which was only three more stops further up the river. Emma brightened. “Patrick, you must meet my father.”
Patrick brushed off his pants. Then he straightened his cap and without replying, led Twist to the gate.
Emma walked beside him. “Wouldn’t you like that?”
“I don’t think yer da would want to meet an Irish lad like me,” he said matter-of-factly.
Emma stopped. “Papa’s not like that,” she protested.
“Aye, he is, miss.”
Her cheeks flamed. “You don’t know my father, so don’t judge him. I fear it’s you who’s too close-minded to meet him. Why, you’re as stubborn as Mister Phineas’s mules.”
Patrick turned to face her in the stable doorway. Emma expected anger, but his eyes were sad. “Didn’t going without supper learn ye what everyone else knows, Miss Emma? When we reach St. Joe, we’ll be parting ways. Yer kind and mine don’t mix. And for yer own sake, ye’d best be remembering that.”
* * *
Emma stared grumpily over the railing into the river below. She was high on the hurricane deck, watching the roustabouts rolling barrels across the gangplank. Twist had been safely loaded and Mama and Kathleen were in the stateroom, but she had no idea where Patrick was.
Emma didn’t want to think about Patrick. She knew he was right. Mama and Papa were civil and generous with their servants. But never had they befriended them. It was unheard of. Once they reached St. Joe, she would be safely in her Papa’s arms while Patrick would be …?
She crinkled her brow, wondering what he and Kathleen would be doing. Perhaps they would end up staying on the Sally May. Patrick might get work as a deckhand, Kathleen as a chambermaid. Or maybe they’d work in St. Joe for a while as they’d planned, earning enough money to travel to California. Either way, Emma wouldn’t see them again.
That was too bad. She enjoyed Patrick’s company more than any of her friends from the St. Louis School for Girls. Frowning, she gnawed on her hat ribbon. What would Cousin Minna do?
Emma kicked the railing, knowing full well that Cousin Minna would never be in this dilemma. Her cousin would never have spoken to someone like Patrick, much less befriended him. Emma would have to come up with her own plan.
Resting her chin on her arm, she thought hard. Of course! She would convince Mama to hire Kathleen to care for her on their trip west. Kathleen was much more practical than her mulish brother. She would see it as a great opportunity. And if Kathleen chose to stay with her family, perhaps Patrick would travel with them, too. When they reached California, he could help Papa pan for gold. Emma could teach him how to ride like an Indian.
Mama was quite fond of Kathleen, Emma knew, so she wouldn’t have to hold her breath long to get her way. But she did need to hurry. Captain Digby had announced that once the steamboat was underway, they would reach Kansas City by nightfall.
Emma raced downstairs. “Mama!” she called as she yanked open the stateroom door.
Doctor Burton stood at the foot of her mother’s berth. Kathleen stood at his side holding a basin and rags.
Emma’s gaze flew to her mother. She was propped on pillows. Her face was white and her eyes glistened. “Is something wrong?” Emma cried. Brushing past Doctor Burton, she knelt by the bedside and touched her mother’s forehead. “Mama, are you ill?”
“You shouldn’t be here, child.” Doctor Burton had taken off his jacket and was rolling up his shirtsleeves. “Kathleen, escort Miss Emma from the room. Then bring me a pot of boiling water.”
Kathleen set the basin on the floor and reached for Emma’s elbow. “Come along, miss.”
“No.” Emma clutched her mother’s hand. “Mama’s sick, and I need to be with her.”
Her mother forced a smile. “It’s all right, Emma. I’m not ill. Go to the ladies’ parlor. Missus Hanover is expecting you. Stay with them until we reach Kansas City.”
“But I d
on’t want to go with her and that silly Julia,” Emma said. “What if you need me?”
Suddenly Doctor Burton’s fingers tightened around her arm and he lifted her to her feet. “There is no time for arguments,” he said. “Mind your mother.” Roughly he propelled her toward the door that led to the main cabin. He opened it, gave her a push outside, and shut the door.
Emma whirled and pounded her fists on the closed door. This wasn’t fair. Something was very wrong with Mama and she needed to be there!
CHAPTER TWELVE
The door opened, forcing Emma to step back. Kathleen slipped out, a finger held to her lips. She shut the door gently behind her. “Hush, Miss Emma,” she whispered. “Yer only upsetting yer mum.”
Emma choked back sobs. “Kathleen, you must tell me what’s wrong. Is my mother dying?”
“Oh, no, miss. She’s … she’s …” Kathleen fidgeted, twisting her apron in her hands.
“She’s what?”
“Soon you will have a new brother or sister.”
A brother or sister? The shock dried Emma’s tears. She stared at Kathleen.
“Now, miss, I’ve got to fetch hot water and help Doctor Burton bring this child into the world.” Kathleen gave her a tired smile. “Don’t worry yer head. Babes are born every day. Now go and sit with the Hanovers as yer mum wishes.”
Kathleen bustled off. Still stunned, Emma stood outside the stateroom. A baby? Why had no one told her? How had she not known?
Anger began to seep through her. She thought of Papa waiting in Kansas City. What about their exciting journey to California? They couldn’t travel with an infant. They would never reach the gold fields.
Papa’s dreams—her dreams—would be ruined. Disappointed and angry, Emma ran toward the stairs to the main deck, wanting to be with Twist.
* * *
“Cousin Minna hates her little brothers,” Emma grumbled to her pony a few minutes later. She was astride him, leaning over with her cheek pressed against his mane. “She calls them Rat and Worm. And Patrick doesn’t even know what happened to his father. I bet the poor man fled on a long sea voyage to escape all those noisy children.”