She thought Clay might join them in their play more often after that. He seemed to find the salons too confining, for he was more often to be seen on deck, helping the crew or talking with the captain or one of the gentlemen passengers. As she had teased him, he appeared to know a little about everything, from handling the wheel to the finer points of Milton. She told herself she should be glad he kept himself so busy instead of hovering over her and Gillian.
He saw it as his duty to protect her. She didn’t want to lean on his strength. She had to build her own strength, for her sake and Gillian’s. And she didn’t much like the way she reacted when he was around, growing breathless at his glance. Yet now she had a more important reason to wish his company.
He knew about Seattle.
She had read everything she could about the place in the newspapers and emigration pamphlets, but she couldn’t help thinking that the accounts were biased. The newspapers either thought it an excellent place poised for growth or a horrible backwoods where one was likely to meet an untimely death. The pamphlets, and Mr. Mercer, for that matter, touted only the wonders to be found there. She wanted more. She wanted facts.
She was still thinking about the matter their first Sunday at sea when the rumor spread that Mr. Mercer intended to officiate at church services in the upper salon.
“Sure’n his time in the coal bin must have given him a glimpse of eternal punishment,” Maddie teased as she helped Allie dress Gillian in her best gown, a rainbow-striped satin with black cord trim across the shoulder and hem. “Perhaps someone should be telling him that he’d do better kneeling at the altar than presuming to stand upon it.”
Allie smiled as she straightened the pink satin bow at the back of her daughter’s head. If God could forgive her for her fears in the past, He could certainly forgive Mr. Mercer his cowardice. The other women had, for the most part, forgiven him. Whenever Allie saw him, he had one or more ladies with him, asking him about Seattle, listening to his advice. She still couldn’t make up her mind about him. Either he was a cunning charlatan or the most put-upon man of her acquaintance.
Regardless, she was quite looking forward to singing the Lord’s praise that morning for sending her and Gillian on this journey. She’d even donned one of her nicest gowns, a sky-blue silk with wide panels of white edging the bodice, overskirt and cuffs, and a neat white collar trimmed in lace. Maddie had also changed into her best dress. The russet color of the fine wool brought out the fire in her hair, and the black lace shawl that crossed the bodice showed her figure to advantage. With Catherine in a white gown trimmed in blue with a blue jacket on top, Allie thought they made a handsome group.
The other ladies in the upper salon looked just as fine, with many a taffeta and velvet among them. Someone had taken the trouble of polishing the woodwork; she could smell the lemon in the air as she took her place beside Mr. Conant. She was only disappointed to find that the piano was still in its packing case. That would hinder any music.
But Mr. Mercer, in a brown coat and striped waistcoat, stepped in front of the group and began to sing.
“He leadeth me, He leadeth me. By His own hand, He leadeth me…”
The ladies’ sopranos rose to the beamed ceiling in the familiar words. Mr. Conant’s tenor blended nicely, but Allie was all too aware of the rumbling bass behind her. Clay’s voice underpinned the score as surely as granite supported the foundation of a chapel. She was almost sorry when the song ended.
“Dear Lord,” Mr. Mercer prayed, head bowed and eyes fervently shut. “Thank You for the many blessings we have received from Your mighty hand. Keep watch over us as we make this sacred journey to that most blessed place, Seattle. Amen.”
“Blessed place?” Clay muttered behind her, skepticism clear in each syllable. Several people glanced his way with grins. Allie’s face felt hot.
Mr. Mercer then pulled a newspaper from his pocket and began to read a sermon. The text was uplifting, but she thought it would have sounded more edifying if it had been spoken by an impassioned preacher.
“That was one of the Reverend Henry Ward Beecher’s sermons,” Catherine whispered beside Allie after Mr. Mercer finished the concluding prayer. “His sermons are reprinted in the newspaper. If that is the best Mr. Mercer can do, perhaps we should organize the service next Sunday.”
“We have more than Sunday services to arrange,” Allie replied to Catherine as she took Gillian’s hand and headed downstairs. “We need to know what we’re facing when we reach Seattle.”
Maddie joined them as they reached the lower salon. “I can’t be arguing with you there, Allegra. I always thought that Mercer was too full of himself to tell us all the truth, so he is.”
Catherine frowned at her. “Then why agree to join his expedition?”
Maddie shrugged. “Seattle couldn’t be any worse than where I was, laundering in New York for pennies, living in a garret.” She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Seattle could be far better. The Independent had it that men outnumber the women twenty to one!”
Catherine raised her platinum brows. “I know you enjoy the gentlemen’s company, Madeleine, but surely you do not intend to accept the first man who proposes.”
Maddie nudged her shoulder. “Oh, off with your airs, now, Catie, me love. I’ve seen you eyeing that handsome lad in Engineering.”
Catherine raised her chin with an eloquent sniff. “As if I would marry a sailor. My father raised me to expect a husband among the professions, but I think Seattle is more in need of my nursing services than as a wife.”
“For a wee bit, at least,” Maddie predicted with a wink to Allie. “And what of you, Mrs. Howard? Will you turn your hand to husband hunting when we reach Mr. Mercer’s blessed shores?”
Allie smiled at the reference to the service. “I have no need of another man to guide my life. I think it high time I guided my own.”
Catherine nodded. “Quite right. Do you know one of the women told me she felt the same way? She already wrote to Governor Pickering requesting that she be designated the Old Maid of the Territory, exempt from any marriage proposal. She carries his letter granting her request in her reticule.”
“Let’s be hoping it’s worth more than Allegra’s letter from Mr. Mercer,” Maddie replied.
Allie shook her head. “I want no more of Mr. Mercer’s assurances. We have someone in our midst who is keenly aware of everything Seattle has to offer and quite unlikely to varnish the truth he speaks.”
Maddie nodded. “Mr. Howard. But I’m thinking he may not be wishing to share everything he knows with us. For all that he’s a charmer, he tends to keep his own council.”
“I’ve noticed that, too,” Catherine said. “There is a wall he will let none behind.”
She sensed it, as well. But she’d known Clay as long as she could remember. He’d said he wanted to protect her. What better way than to arm her with information? She couldn’t find the facts she sought in a book, worse luck.
She glanced around at her friends. “I know Mr. Howard seems unapproachable, but I still say he’s our best hope for learning more about Seattle. If we put our heads together, I’m sure we can find a way to convince him to tell us everything.”
Chapter Eight
Clay’s first inkling that Allegra and her friends were up to something was the tantalizing smell of fresh-baked bread. He’d been out in the sunlight, helping Mr. Debro inventory the life preservers on the hurricane deck, when the aroma drifted past. It brought back memories of breakfasts at home, their chef beaming down on him as Clay dived into the fluffy eggs and warm toast dripping with butter. Funny. He hadn’t thought he could be homesick for Boston, not after all these years.
He hadn’t thought he’d be so attracted to Allegra, either. What need did he have for a fine Boston lady in his ever-changing life? She would never put up with his mad starts, as his mother used to call his ideas. It should be easy to keep her at a distance, think of her only as his brother’s wife, meant to be cherished an
d protected. Yet he couldn’t stop remembering her smile, the touch of her fingers, the tender way she looked at little Gillian. Some part of him wanted a similar look directed at him.
Perhaps she was best protected at a distance. When he returned to the territory, he didn’t need her memories following him about.
But it was soon obvious that memories hadn’t brought back that aroma. Mr. Debro laid a hand on the stack of cork rings and drew in a breath through his nose.
“Do you smell that?” he asked, closing his eyes and sighing. “It’s like my mother’s cinnamon rolls.” He opened his eyes and frowned at Clay. “That can’t be coming from the galley.”
Clay had to agree. So far, the food aboard the Continental, at least in the lower salon where he generally ate with Allegra and Gillian, was plentiful but uninspiring. It mostly consisted of hard biscuits, fried salt beef and parboiled beans, with little other vegetables and no fruit. Sometimes he thought the tea was being steeped in seawater, for he couldn’t seem to wash the salt from his mouth. He could only hope they might do better when they put in to Rio for supplies.
The purser was as inclined as Clay to investigate the scent, so they followed their noses to the lower salon, where a number of the passengers and several of the officers were already gathered around Allegra’s friend Ms. O’Rourke. The redhead was standing at the top of the table in her green wool gown, eyes twinkling with merriment as if she knew the dreams she’d inspired with her baking.
“And there is the man we’ve been waiting for, so we have,” she declared as Clay shouldered his way forward. She patted the checkered cloth mounded on the table, the edges of a pewter platter just visible under the cloth. “Did you have something you wanted to say, Mr. Howard?”
Clay couldn’t seem to take his eyes off that platter. “Only that whatever is under there smells mighty tempting, ma’am.”
The others around him murmured their agreement, and several shuffled closer. Matt Kelley went so far as to duck under Clay’s arm for a better look.
Ms. O’Rourke’s smile widened. “I’d be happy to show you what’s beneath, Mr. Howard. But first we have a wee proposal for you.”
“Indeed we do,” Allegra said. Clay turned to find her coming out of her stateroom, one hand in Gillian’s. Her other friend, Ms. Stanway, marched at her side. Both had their heads up, and their skirts swung accompaniment to their brisk walk as they approached the table. Once again she wore the gray gown with all that black fringe. Her friend’s brown taffeta dress was far more somber. Clay had a funny feeling he was in for trouble.
As if the other passengers sensed it, too, they glanced between Allegra and Clay. He felt like an actor onstage at the Boston Theatre, all gazes waiting for his next move.
“And what proposal would that be?” he asked, standing tall and crossing his arms over the chest of his navy jacket.
While Ms. Stanway took Gillian and went to stand on one side of Ms. O’Rourke, Allegra glided to the other side and nodded to Clay. Her look was polite and precise, and he waited to hear what she was going to demand of him. If she ordered him to leave the ship at Rio and stop bothering her and Gillian, he knew he’d have some tough talking to do.
“Why, you have knowledge we need, sir,” she said, gaze meeting his in challenge. “About the territory, about Seattle. We propose a trade. You teach us what we’ll need to be successful there—” she nodded to Ms. O’Rourke “—and we’ll keep you supplied with sweets.”
The redhead whipped the cloth off the platter, and the scent of cinnamon danced in the air. Clay couldn’t tear his eyes off the treasure lying there. Clustered on the rough pewter were hot cross buns, snowy icing dripping down their sides. Several of the passengers gasped out an “Oh!”
Clay had to swallow before speaking. “A mighty fine offer to be sure,” he started, but another man pushed forward.
“Don’t listen to him, Ms. O’Rourke,” he begged. “I’ve five pieces of silver right here. Give me your platter.”
“I’ll give you eight,” someone yelled.
“I’ll go ten and make them gold!”
Ms. O’Rourke’s smile turned up, and she reached for the edge of her platter.
Allegra put herself between the redhead and Clay and raised her hands in supplication. “Friends, friends, please!”
“Our Savior said that man cannot live by bread alone,” Ms. Stanway reminded them from the other side of the platter.
“I’ll bet the good Lord never smelled those buns,” Mr. Debro muttered, gaze fastened on the sweets.
Even Gillian licked her pink lips as if she was having a difficult time being good for once and only wanted to gobble down those buns.
Allegra stiffened her spine and glared at each of the men in turn. To Clay’s surprise, gazes bowed, fellows stepped back.
“These were baked solely for Mr. Howard,” she informed them. “He can determine how to apportion them, if he accepts our request to teach.” She met Clay’s gaze, and the deep blue softened even as her tone grew more imploring. “Well, Mr. Howard? You could do a great deal of good here. Won’t you please help us?”
Now every gaze was on him, some as entreating as hers, others more threatening. He didn’t care much for either. Nor did he think that Allegra and her friends would listen to what he had to teach. She’d argued with him every time he’d tried to tell her about Seattle. They’d all started this journey with idealistic dreams, and he couldn’t help wondering how they’d react when those dreams met the cold reality of the frontier.
But if Allegra wanted to hear the truth about Seattle at last, who was he to deny her?
“I accept your proposal, Mrs. Howard,” he replied. “Cut those buns as small as possible so everyone can have a taste, then grab a chair and meet me on the hurricane deck. We have a lot of studying ahead of us.”
*
A short time later, Allie, Gillian, Catherine and Maddie, along with several of the other interested women, joined Clay on the hurricane deck. Allie couldn’t help feeling a sense of pride that they’d managed to convince Clay to teach them. She wasn’t sure why he had been so reticent to accept their offer, but she couldn’t wait to hear more.
She and the other women arranged the white slatted wooden deck chairs they’d carried up from the lower deck into a half circle surrounding Clay, who stood with his back to the massive black funnel rising from the boiler room. The hurricane deck was the highest point any passenger could reach on the Continental, topping the upper salon and the first-class staterooms. A railing of black chains surrounded the whitewashed deck, and longboats were strapped at each corner, making Allie feel as if they’d all cozied up inside a little nest.
The weather had been turning warmer each day, and the crew had slung a sail over the top of the deck to shade it from the sun. Today, however, it was holding back a gentle rain. Allie could hear the drops pattering down on the canvas as she settled into her seat next to Clay, with Gillian cuddled close in her lap.
“Perhaps we should have conducted class in the upper salon,” Catherine said on the other side of the circle. She pulled her paisley shawl more tightly about the shoulders of her high-necked brown dress as if to ward off the cool breeze that skipped under the sail.
Clay smiled as the others found their seats, as well. “I’d accustom myself to the rain if I were you, Ms. Stanway. It rains a great deal in Seattle. Some days, it’s nearly impossible to cross the street for the mud.”
“Mr. Mercer says the streets in Seattle are paved with opportunities,” one of the women piped up.
“Mr. Mercer has his head in the rain clouds, I’m thinking,” Maddie answered her, hands on her green wool skirts, and perched on one of the trunks toward the bow end of the deck. Allie decided not to point out that her seat was clearly marked Gunpowder. “It sounds as if the streets aren’t paved at all.”
Some of the women laughed at that, but Allie turned to watch how Clay would react. Though one corner of his mouth turned up, bringing his dimple
into view, he didn’t join in their laughter.
“She’s right,” he said when they had quieted again. “None of the roads in town are paved, and those outside town are little more than deer paths. Many of the men live in boardinghouses or the Occidental Hotel. Last count, we only had around seventy-five houses, all told, some board, some log.”
Seventy-five houses? That was a neighborhood in Boston. And she’d never seen a log house.
“Then you have a sawmill,” a man called from the back of the group, and Allie noticed that a few of the male passengers had climbed up on the deck, as well. In fact, more people kept filing up the stairs, until the deck was nearly packed with passengers, jostling to hear more about their new home.
“Henry Yesler has a mill,” Clay confirmed. “The first steam-powered sawmill in the area. But most of the lumber he cuts he ships away, either to other parts of the territory or to San Francisco.”
“But you have the territorial university,” Catherine put in. “Surely the territorial capital is not far behind.”
Allie smiled at her friend’s insistence, but she knew Catherine was right. Once Seattle hosted the legislature, there would be no telling how quickly it would grow.
Clay’s smile only widened. “The territorial legislature voted for the capital to remain in Olympia, three times now. And as for the university, it has thirty students, only one of them old enough to actually graduate any time soon.” He bent to tweak one of Gillian’s curls. “A few could play happily alongside Captain Howard.”
Gillian wiggled in Allie’s lap, and she could see that her daughter had brightened at the thought. The others took the news harder. All around her, shoulders sagged, mouths drooped. They’d all pinned their hopes on the stories Mr. Mercer had spun, of prosperity, of opportunity. The picture Clay was painting was of another place entirely.
She wasn’t willing to give up so easily. “You settled in Seattle,” she pointed out to Clay. “Two years ago, you said. Coming from Boston, why would you choose such a place?”
Love Inspired Historical November 2014 Page 33