River Queen

by Gilbert, Morris

  Dropping her knitting and gazing at Julienne directly, she replied, “Because your father knows you’re going to New Orleans in two weeks, and he said you were talking away about your spring wardrobe. Listen to me, Julienne. The family is going through a very difficult time financially right now. Though I suppose he’s tried, Charles hasn’t seemed to be able to make you understand. Or Darcy, or even Roseann. There is no money, Julienne. You cannot order an entire new spring wardrobe.”

  “What! What in the world am I supposed to do?” Julienne said petulantly.

  “That’s why I’ve stayed. Tyla and your mother and I will all be able to rework your clothes from last spring. By the time we’re finished you’ll think you have a brand-new wardrobe.”

  “I don’t understand,” Julienne complained. “Why, all of a sudden, is there no money? We still have the plantation, don’t we? We’ve always had money.”

  “Less and less of it for some time now.”

  “But I can still go see Simone, right?” Julienne asked suddenly. “Papa promised!”

  “Yes, you’re still going to New Orleans, though we really can’t afford it,” Aunt Leah answered, “but you are going because your father did promise, and he’s a man of his word.”

  “That’s one good thing, anyway,” Julienne said. “Even if I am going to look ridiculous in last year’s fashions.”

  “You will look beautiful as you always do, and Simone won’t know the difference,” Aunt Leah said sturdily.

  Maybe not, but I will, Julienne thought sulkily as she flew back up to her room to drag out all of last year’s dresses.

  She had completely forgotten about Tyla and Matthias.

  MARCH ARRIVED IN A fit of temper, with thunderstorms roaring, pounding rains, and great sky-bursts of lightning. It stormed day and night the first days of the month. On Sunday the eleventh, the day was bleak, with lowering clouds, but it didn’t rain. Monday dawned, still dark and threatening.

  “We’re going,” Julienne said stubbornly. “I’ve been looking forward to this trip for months. And for the last two weeks I haven’t been to a single party or even paid any visiting calls, and I’ve been so bored, and New Orleans has the grandest spring season. We’re going.”

  “All right, Miss Julienne,” Tyla said resignedly. “It just seems dangerous, is all. Big storms for days, and that cruel Old Man River.”

  “It’s just a storm on a river, not a hurricane in the north Atlantic,” Julienne retorted. “Don’t be afraid, Tyla, the steamers go every single day, no matter what the weather. It really doesn’t affect them, you know.”

  “I guess not,” Tyla conceded. “All right then, sit down and let me fix your hair and put your bonnet on while Caesar’s loading your trunks.”

  After the freakish late snow in February, it seemed that the Deep South had decided to abruptly shift into spring. It was still cool for the South, in the upper forties at night and the fifties and sixties during the day, but already the trees and wildflowers had started blooming. Julienne had read that morning in the New York newspaper that they had had a two-foot snowfall. I would hate to live in the North, she thought happily. I really do love my home.

  In spite of her complaints, Julienne really was happy with the way her clothes had been freshened up and redesigned by her aunt and her mother. This traveling ensemble was very attractive, a crisp poplin dress of dark green and gold stripes with a matching floor-length hooded cloak of green. Her mother had completely redone the bodice of the dress and had fashioned the cloak from the skirt of another dress, lining it with a durable green cotton jean to make it water resistant.

  She went downstairs to say goodbye to her family. Her mother was nervous and begged her not to go; even Charles said, “Julienne, I can change your passage until later on, you don’t have to travel in this wicked weather.”

  “Please, Papa, I’ll be fine, you know that.” She kissed his cheek, then bent down to hug Carley. “Be good, little monkey. Don’t drive Mother crazy, and stay in your lessons with Aunt Leah.”

  “I don’t want to,” she said darkly. “I want to go with you.”

  “No you don’t. I’m not going fishing,” Julienne answered, smiling.

  Finally they were in the barouche and winding slowly down Silver Street. Out of nowhere, a long, deafening roll of thunder sounded over their heads, forked lightning spears struck near, and the rains began.

  “Oh dear,” Tyla said faintly.

  The carriage stopped, and Caesar, the Ashby’s man-of-all-work, yanked open the door. He held a big black parasol, and rain dripped dismally from each point in a steady stream. “We’re here, Miss Julienne. This is your boat, I guess.”

  Julienne stepped out, and immediately her boots filled with mud and water and the hem of her wide hoop skirt was sopping at least eight inches up. Blinking, she looked at the steamer rocking on the uneasy river.

  “But that’s so little,” she said. “Are you sure that’s the Missouri Dream?”

  “Yes, ma’am, saw it plain as plain painted on the side when we drove up,” Caesar answered. “Can’t see it through this soup, I know, but that’s her.”

  The Missouri Dream was a sturdy steamer, carrying both passengers and freight. She was fairly new, and so wasn’t at all worn or shabby, for her owners kept her up very well. But she was small. At least, to Julienne, she looked tiny and scruffy, and that was probably because the last steamer she had seen had been two weeks ago, the queenly Columbia Lady. In fact, she had had a vague notion that she was sailing on that grand ship. Felicia Moak had told her that Lyle Dennison had indeed bought the Lady, and being reminded of it she had mentioned it to her father and told him that she wanted to go on that boat to New Orleans. But then she vaguely recalled that he had said something about the Columbia Lady being prohibitively expensive. Still, Julienne was irritated.

  “Oh, very well. Come on, Tyla, let’s get in out of this downpour. I’ll see if I can get one of the crewmen to fetch my trunks.” Loaded on top of the carriage Julienne had two great steamer trunks, two traveling cases, and eight hatboxes. Tyla had one humble carpetbag.

  Caesar, blinking and spluttering in the rain, shielded Julienne as she stepped smartly on the landing stage. Tyla pulled her shawl over her head and hurried behind her. When Julienne boarded, she looked helplessly around for a crewman, but none were there.

  “I’ll start bringing the trunks up, Miss Julienne,” Caesar said. “But you’ll have to find your stateroom where I’m to bring them.”

  “All right,” Julienne said uncertainly. She looked around. The big double doors that led to the cargo area and the firebox were just ahead of her, and over the din of the storm she could hear snatches of shouting and cursing. Julienne had no desire to go sashaying up in there. Ruefully she decided that she’d better go up to the pilothouse and see if she could find the captain or at least the first mate.

  The stairs leading up to the hurricane deck, where the pilothouse was perched, was outside. Without a word Julienne threw her hood up, bowed her head, and hurried out to run up the stairs, followed by Tyla. When she reached the pilothouse, she couldn’t tell if anyone was in there, because the rain smeared the windows. She threw the door open and practically ran in.

  Two men were there, and they whirled to stare at her, startled.

  “I apologize for the intrusion, but there is not a single crewman to be seen down on the main deck,” she blurted out angrily, pushing back her hood and brushing rain away from her eyes. “I am a paying passenger and I require assistance. Where is your crew?”

  Still the two men were speechless. Julienne stared at them irately, but suddenly her dark eyes widened and her mouth even opened slightly with astonishment. “Mr. Bronte? Dallas Bronte? You? What are you doing here?”

  He quickly recovered. “Nothing useful, apparently. This is the pilot of the Missouri Dre
am, my friend Kip Herrin. Kip, I had the pleasure of making this lady’s acquaintance a few weeks ago. It’s my honor to introduce you to Miss Julienne Ashby.”

  “It’s a great pleasure to meet you, Miss Ashby,” he said, bowing over her hand. He was a young man, with bright eager eyes and a wide smile.

  Julienne was surprised but pleased at Dallas’s fine manners, but she now felt ridiculous, standing there dripping and bedraggled. “So kind,” she said automatically. “I apologize for bursting in on you like this, but I really didn’t know quite what to do.”

  “I’m so sorry, Miss Ashby, but we had stacked our wood outside and when this storm came up all hands were called to bring it into the cargo hold,” Herrin explained. “Even Captain Wynans is down there, shifting cotton bales, to make room. That’s why no one was there to greet you.”

  “I’ll take care of it, Kip,” Dallas said easily. “She’s in the Texas, I imagine. I’ll get her all settled.”

  “Thanks, Dallas, but hurry back, would you? I want to go over Point 142 again,” Kip said.

  Dallas sketched a salute, then took Julienne’s arm. “This way, ma’am, right over here is the hatch to the inside stairwell down to the Texas deck. Oh, hello, ma’am. Are you Miss Julienne’s maid? Here, step right down here, careful now.” He lifted a heavy hatch in the deck, and helped Julienne and Tyla down the steps, then followed them. “Right ahead, down the hallway, the last one of the left. The Texas stateroom. It’s one of the biggest, so I’m sure that’s where you’re booked, Miss Ashby. You ladies go on in, and I’ll go see about your luggage.”

  They went into the stateroom, and Dallas disappeared.

  Julienne looked around, dismayed. The room had two small bunk beds against one wall. A single straight chair was underneath a small window. On the other wall was a chest only eight inches deep, to give room to squeeze between it and the beds. It held the smallest water jug and pitcher Julienne had ever seen, along with two white towels.

  “Good heavens, this is smaller than my closet,” Julienne said with disgust. “What was Papa thinking?”

  “He did the best he could, considering,” Tyla said. But her voice was weak, and she gripped the side of the bunk bed so tightly her knuckles were bloodless.

  Julienne turned to her. “You’re ill, Tyla. Why didn’t you tell me you were getting sick?”

  “I didn’t want to complain, but I really haven’t been feeling myself today,” she answered weakly. “And I guess you’ve forgotten, Miss Julienne. I never have traveled on water too well. And sure even you’ve noticed that we’re rolling something fierce.”

  Julienne felt a wave of shame. Always before, Tyla had either had her own little compartment connected to her stateroom, or had been in some other part of the boat where the servants bunked. She hadn’t really been aware that Tyla got sick when she traveled. “Yes, well, maybe this storm will pass, and Old Muddy will be back to its lazy self,” she said with forced cheer. “Anyway, you go ahead and get comfortable and lie down, Tyla. I’m perfectly capable of seeing to the trunks. No, don’t you dare, you take the bottom bunk. I insist.”

  Despite Tyla’s weak protests, Julienne took off her jacket and loosened her blouse buttons, removed her shoes, noting that they were her old half-boots that she had thrown away. Julienne practically forced her down on the bottom bunk, and covered her up securely. “Rest now,” she said sternly. “I’ll be back soon.”

  She went to the door and Tyla asked weakly, “Miss Julienne? Is that nice man, that Mr. Bronte, the same man you met at that party and you said was no gentleman?”

  “That’s the man himself.”

  “He’s sure a fine-looking man,” Tyla murmured softly. “A man you could depend on, a man that would take care of you.”

  “What? But how—?” But Tyla’s chin had sunk down and she closed her eyes wearily.

  Julienne closed the door quietly and went to find Caesar and Dallas Bronte. She found them on the main deck. All of her luggage had been brought on board but they were stacked just inside the double doors, barely out of the rain. As she neared them she could hear Caesar saying in distress, “. . . has to have her things. She can’t have her nice things piled down here with dirty cargo, and all these roughnecks shoving them around.”

  “I understand, Caesar, but—oh, there you are, Miss Julienne. I would guess that now you’ve seen your stateroom you can understand that you can’t have your luggage in there. I was just trying to explain to Caesar that they’ll have to be stowed down here,” Dallas said patiently.

  “It’s true, Caesar, there’s barely enough room for me in there, much less any trunks,” Julienne grumbled. “Don’t worry, Caesar, it’s only about ten or twelve hours to New Orleans, they’ll be fine down here for that time.”

  “May be a little longer than that,” Dallas said gravely, “but I’ll help you if you need to get some things, maybe rearrange some clothes and put what you’ll need in one of the traveling cases.”

  “I don’t know about all that,” Julienne said uncertainly. “Tyla takes care of things like that for me. But she’s sick. I guess, Mr. Bronte, maybe I should get you to help me look in one of my trunks and see if I might need to repack a case for overnight.” She turned to Caesar. “Thank you so much, Caesar, but get home now and get Libby to fix you some nice hot soup. You’re soaked through. Don’t worry, get on now.”

  Reluctantly he left, and Julienne turned to the mass of trunks and boxes piled by the door. “So you’re volunteering to help me, Mr. Bronte? I must admit I’ve never had to deal with a problem like this.”

  “No, I’m sure you haven’t,” he said dryly. “What I’m going to do is take them over in that corner over there, see? Stack ’em up and secure them with a stout line. They’ll be safe, they won’t take up much room that way, and I can get to them easy if you need to get something out of them.”

  “That sounds good, I guess. If you would please take this trunk first, and let me look in it and get some things I may need. So you do think we may be traveling all night?”

  “Maybe,” he said. “Depends on the storm. Can’t see a blooming thing when it’s raining steady like this, it’s hard to spot your points and landmarks. A good pilot slows down, a lot, when he can’t see too well.”

  Julienne nodded. “Then I’d like to pack a small case for me, and take Tyla’s bag. I think they’ll fit under the bunk, won’t they?”

  “Sure.” Gamely Dallas bent and picked up one of the trunks. It was massive, two feet deep, forty inches high, and two feet wide, and it was packed to the brim. With a small grunt he picked it up, walked to the corner, and gently set it down at an exact angle to fit into it.

  Julienne admired this obvious show of strength, but she said nothing except, “Would you mind bringing me that small case?” She walked to the trunk, took a key out of her reticule, unlocked it, and opened the top. Dallas stood there holding her small black leather case. He looked down and a delighted grin lit his face. The boyish expression sat oddly on his tough features.

  Julienne’s eyes widened. The top of the trunk had a shallow fitting that set on top, divided into compartments. Julienne’s most delicate pantaloons, lacy chemises, satin corsets, and sheer underslips lay in them. She slammed the top back down and stared at Dallas accusingly.

  “You weren’t supposed to see those,” she snapped.

  “I know,” he said. “But I did. They’re real pretty.”

  Julienne’s cheeks flamed. “You—you are so impertinent! How dare you?”

  “How dare I what? Say your underthings are pretty? Should I have said they’re ugly?”

  “This is not funny,” Julienne said between gritted teeth. “Just secure my trunks as you said, Mr. Bronte.” She whirled and thought she had made a fine, dignified exit, but he called after her.

  “Miss Ashby?”

  She turne
d slowly. He stood there, his arms crossed, his chin tilted upward. “I’m not your slave like poor Caesar,” he said. “I don’t even work on this boat. I was just trying to help you out, but I’m not taking orders from you, ma’am.”

  Julienne’s eyes narrowed and she drew herself up to her full height. “Excuse me. I thought you were being a gentleman.”

  “Maybe if you acted more like a lady, I’d act more like a gentleman,” he drawled.

  “Ooh! You’re insufferable!” Julienne almost shouted.

  “Okay, then, if you can’t stand me so bad, I guess you don’t want my help. Be seeing you, Miss Ashby.” He turned to walk toward the double doors.

  But just before he disappeared Julienne said, “Wait. I mean, please wait, Mr. Bronte.”

  “Yes?” he said, turning.

  “It seems I require some assistance with my trunks,” she said in the politest tone she could manage. “Would you please help me, sir?”

  “I dunno. What about your little French pet he-goat? He gonna show up and try to butt my shins again?” he asked, his strange greenish eyes alight.

  Julienne gritted her teeth. “Mr. Etienne Bettencourt is not my—oh, never mind. I’m asking you, as a gentleman, to please render your assistance to a lady.”

  “Of course, ma’am.” He went back to the trunk he’d placed, and Julienne thought he was going to lift the top again. She bolted to it and slammed her hand against the top, looking at him accusingly.

  “I was just going to see if you locked it back, ma’am,” he said. “Stored down here, it better be locked.”

  “Oh. Well. No, I suppose I didn’t. You confused me. Here, I’ll lock it now.” She bent to insert the key and lock the trunk securely again.

  Dallas Bronte went to the other trunk, which was slightly smaller, and brought it to the corner. When Julienne finished, he set it on the top of the other one. “It was kinda funny, you know,” he murmured, “you showing me your pretty underthings.”