Fortune's Journey

by Bruce Coville

  Fortune’s Journey

  Bruce Coville

  To Alice Morigi, who insisted that I make it better, and helped me do so with her wise and detailed comments. Whatever flaws this story has now, they would be far greater without the help of this grand lady of the theater.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Author’s Note

  A Personal History by Bruce Coville

  Chapter One

  Ahead lay San Francisco, and all their golden dreams. But that was more than half a continent away. All the six members of Plunkett’s Players could see now, in the mid-afternoon of April 3, 1853, was the dreary road to Busted Heights, Missouri.

  Fortune Plunkett, the group’s leader, braced herself against the bumping of their gaudily painted wagon. The troupe had been traveling since sunrise, and there wasn’t a bone in her body that didn’t ache from the jouncing and rattling.

  Even more annoying than the jouncing was the fact that she had been sitting next to Aaron Masters all day long, and he had virtually ignored her for that entire time. As she glanced up at him now, one of the wagon’s wheels thudded into a mud hole. The wagon lurched sideways and Fortune took the opportunity to fall against Aaron, digging her elbow into his ribs as she did.

  “Hey!” he snapped. “Watch it!”

  “Sorry,” she said primly. “Maybe you should drive a little more carefully.”

  Aaron snorted and returned his attention to the road. He made a clicking noise in the corner of his mouth, then called, “Gee, Romeo! Haw, Juliet!” He shook the reins to urge the lead horses in their team of four to put on more speed. They had a fair distance to go before they reached the town, and none of them wanted to spend another cold night beside the road if they could avoid it.

  Fortune crossed her arms and stared ahead angrily. It seemed to her that if a girl had been in love with someone for over three years, she ought to be able to expect a little response, even if that someone was five years older. Yet here she was, almost seventeen, assuredly not ugly, reasonably bright and talented—and as far as Aaron was concerned, she might as well not exist.

  “The biggest problem with you, Aaron Masters, is that you know how handsome you are; you know it as well as any of those girls who flock around you in every town we pass through. The only person you’re interested in is yourself.”

  That was what she ought to say to him. She had been rehearsing the speech for months, even before her father died. But she could never find the nerve to make it.

  She watched Aaron from the corner of her eye as he guided the horses around the mud holes. Holding the reins loosely in his hand, he seemed as confident as he was on stage. His classic profile and dark, curly hair stood out against the wide midwestern sky, making him look like a god from the wonderful Greek myths Fortune’s mother had read to her years ago.

  “How much farther is it, anyway?” whined a voice from behind them.

  The voice belonged to Edmund Wallach, the newest member of Plunkett’s Players. The group had taken on Edmund a few states back, in a town where he had been stranded by another troupe that had decided they had no use for his talents.

  Henry Patchett, “artistic director” for Plunkett’s Players since the death of Fortune’s father four months earlier, had been delighted to find Edmund. “I don’t understand how anyone could have let such a talent go,” he had told Fortune several times since.

  The rest of the players understood easily enough. Though his ability as an actor was considerable, so far Edmund had otherwise proved to be totally devoid of redeeming features. He was, however, a master whiner.

  “I hope we won’t have to stay in a barn again,” he continued now. “It’s undignified!”

  “That barn was dry,” replied Fortune tartly. “And it was certainly better than the stable you were living in when we found you!”

  “A temporary arrangement, I assure you. I would have been out of there in another day or so.” Edmund’s voice carried not the slightest hint that he didn’t absolutely believe what he was saying. But then, he was an actor by trade.

  Fortune sighed. The hiring of Edmund Wallach seemed to prove her father’s oft-made claim that Henry Patchett was too softhearted for his own good. (Actually, Fortune’s mother had often made the same claim about John Plunkett himself.)

  The enormous man sitting next to Edmund scratched his gray beard and asked, “But how much farther is it?”

  “Busted Heights, five miles,” said Aaron, pointing to a wooden sign at the side of the road.

  “If you would keep your eyes open, you wouldn’t have to ask foolish questions, Walter,” said Mrs. Watson, their leading lady. She smiled sweetly and adjusted one of the mother-of-pearl combs that held her long red hair in place.

  “Sorry, Amanda,” said Walter, ignoring the fact that he could not possibly have seen the sign from inside the wagon. He scratched his beard again, then lifted his derby and scratched the back of his head as well. Walter made it a point never to argue with Mrs. Watson. He had told Fortune it wasn’t worth the effort, since she never listened to a thing anyone said.

  “What’s so important about this town that we had to go twenty miles out of our way to play it anyway?” asked Edmund querulously.

  Fortune ignored the question. The trip to Busted Heights was something her father had insisted on. But he had not been willing to tell her why, saying only that he had something important to do in the town.

  “Unfinished business, Fortune. Unfinished business,” was all he’d say whenever she asked about it.

  Now he was gone, and though Fortune didn’t know what the business was, she had decided to go through the town anyway. She figured if the “business” was important enough, it would find her.

  When they reached the town an hour later, Fortune almost told Aaron to keep rolling. Busted Heights, population 407, was the most dismal spot they had landed in yet. It seemed the farther west they traveled, the more unpleasant the surroundings became. She hoped the trend wouldn’t continue indefinitely.

  As they rattled to a stop, Fortune found herself longing once more for the gracious sophistication of Charleston and the cozy house where she and her parents had lived when they were not traveling with a show.

  If the other actors felt the same way, they didn’t show it. Despite the unpaved streets and gray buildings of Busted Heights, they exploded from the wagon like bees from a toppled hive.

  “Oh, lordy, that does feel good,” said Mr. Patchett, stretching his long legs. “Today’s ride was longer than an amateur production of King Lear.”

  Fortune looked at him fondly. Tall—though not as tall as Walter—slender and beak-nosed, Henry Patchett had been her father’s best friend since long before she was born.

  “Walter, get my bag,” ordered Mrs. Watson.

  “Certainly, my dear,” replied the giant in a mild voice.

  Fortune frowned. She didn’t like the way Mrs. Watson treated Walter—or any of the rest of them, for that matter. Ever since the death of Fortune’s mother nearly two years earlier, Amanda Watson had been trying to take on the role of Grand Lady for the troupe.

  “Leave the bag,” said Fortune, braving Mrs. W
atson’s scowl. “We’ve got a lot to do before dark. Let’s get busy.”

  Familiar with the routine, they separated to tackle their jobs—Edmund and Aaron to put up posters announcing the troupe was in town; Mr. Patchett and Walter to find a space to perform in; Mrs. Watson to begin attracting men, which she did with remarkable skill.

  As leader of the troupe, Fortune was responsible for finding their lodgings.

  It didn’t take her long to locate a likely looking boarding house—which for their purposes was one that didn’t look as if it would charge much money. Tugging her dress slightly askew, Fortune reached up and pulled a wisp of her golden hair out of place. The moves were calculated to add to her waiflike appearance. Sometimes they helped, sometimes not. The fact that she was only five feet tall also helped, though most of the time she found her height—or lack thereof—wildly annoying.

  Taking a deep breath, Fortune marched up to the door of the boarding house and knocked. She looked the place over while she waited. It was not very attractive. Ugly would be a better word, she told herself, trying to keep to her latest resolution of speaking her mind, even when it was only to herself.

  The woman who answered the door was lean and bitter looking. She seemed, somehow, to fit the house. Her name, according to the sign out front, was Myra Halleck.

  “I’d like to rent two rooms,” said Fortune.

  The Halleck woman looked at her suspiciously. “I only see one of you. What do you need two rooms for?”

  She’s the unfriendliest one yet, thought Fortune, bracing herself. Out loud, in what she hoped were her most innocent tones, she said, “There are six of us.”

  “Family?”

  “Sort of.”

  The woman’s pinched face took on a familiar scowl. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “We work together,” said Fortune. “We’re traveling players.”

  “Actors?” shrieked the woman. “In my house?” Fortune winced. No matter how often she heard that tone of righteous indignation, she could never get used to it.

  Papa, I can’t do this, she thought. I need you back. But John Plunkett wasn’t coming back, so there was no point in thinking about it. Drawing herself up, Fortune said in a prim voice, “We are world-renowned thespians.”

  Her hope that the big word would put the woman off her guard was in vain.

  “You may call yourself thespians,” said the woman bitterly, fairly spitting the word, “I call you frivolators.”

  Fortune gazed up at Mrs. Halleck and allowed two tears to form in the corners of her eyes. They trembled for a moment at the edge of her lashes, then spilled down her cheeks. “We do good shows,” she said, letting a slight quaver creep into her voice. “You could bring your minister without any shame at all.”

  Mrs. Halleck stared at her for a minute, then relented. “All right, you can rent two rooms. But the rules are strict—and it will have to be money in advance!”

  Fortune dug in her heels and started to negotiate. It wasn’t long before she realized her little performance had been wasted. Once the old fraud had scented money, there was no chance of her turning them away. She had simply been setting herself up to charge as much as she could.

  An hour later, pleased but not delighted by the deal she had worked out with Mrs. Halleck, Fortune went looking for the rest of her troupe. It wasn’t hard to find them—the Conestoga wagon they were traveling in had been painted in brilliant colors. Tall scarlet letters on the canvas read PLUNKETT’S PLAYERS—AMERICA’S FINEST TRAVELING THEATRICAL COMPANY.

  She had just spotted the wagon—as usual, it had attracted a handful of small boys—when Mr. Patchett came striding toward her. Fortune smiled. With his prominent nose and long skinny legs, Henry sometimes made her think of a stork.

  “Good news, Fortune! There’s an empty room available above MacKenzie’s General Store.” He pointed to a wooden building across the street. “It’s a good size. They even have dances in it sometimes. We open there tomorrow night with The Widow’s Daughter.”

  Walter had come lumbering up beside them. He grimaced at the mention of the play. “When are we going to do some good shows again, Fortune?” he asked, staring mournfully down at her. “You know, the kind of thing your father—” He caught himself and started again. “The kind of thing we started out to produce.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with The Widow’s Daughter,” snapped Mr. Patchett. “The problem is with you, Walter. You’re as stuck up as a kite in a tree.”

  Fortune sighed. The argument was as familiar, and as boring, as her worn blue dress. “We’ll get back to those plays, Walter,” she said, resting her hand on his arm. “I promise. Right now I’ve got one thing in mind, and that is to get us to California as Papa intended.”

  She turned and headed for the general store Mr. Patchett had indicated.

  “You must be Miss Plunkett,” said the heavyset man standing behind the counter.

  “Guilty as charged,” replied Fortune. “Are you Mr. MacKenzie? If so, then thank you for renting us your loft.”

  The man made a sound somewhere between a snort and a grunt. “It’ll be good to have some entertainment around here,” he said, straightening a row of tin containers that stood on the counter. “You folks find a place to stay yet?”

  Fortune nodded. “We’re at Mrs. Halleck’s boardinghouse.”

  MacKenzie laughed. “I bet things are a little edgy around there about now.”

  “Why would that be?” asked Fortune innocently.

  “The Widow Halleck doesn’t much care for any kind of frivolity. In fact, I’d say the only thing she hates worse than actors is missing out on a chance to make a penny. So she’s going to be feeling kind of funny about having you folks in the house; sort of like letting the devil through the front door, if you know what I mean.”

  Fortune nodded. She knew all too well how some people felt about actors—and actresses. She turned the conversation to the kind of fabric she was looking for. Mr. MacKenzie showed her where he stored the bolts of material, and soon Fortune was lost in daydreaming. The homely goods—pots and pans, bolts of fabric, even the mop buckets—gave her a sharp stab of longing.

  She wanted a home of her own!

  She cut the thought off ruthlessly. For now, the wagon was her home. Besides, thoughts of home brought with them pictures of her parents. The wounds their deaths had sliced into her heart had not yet healed enough for Fortune to deal with them.

  Forcing herself to look around, she spotted a bolt of calico cloth. It would make a lovely dress. Maybe if the take was good tomorrow night…

  That was silly and she knew it. Even if the take was good, any extra money had to be reserved for the trip west. Even so, she ran her fingers along the fabric, planning out the lines of a dress. Turning the bolt over a few times to let out the cloth, she lifted a length of the fabric to her throat, then turned to the window, hoping to catch her reflection so she could see what the dress might look like played against her blue eyes and blond hair.

  To her surprise, she saw someone watching her.

  The face looking in at the window was young and pleasant, its owner lean and deeply tanned. He had a crooked smile, high cheekbones, and large brown eyes that would have come dangerously close to making him pretty if it had not been for a slight scar that cut through his right eyebrow. His unruly mop of chestnut brown hair appeared to resist any attempts to hold it in place.

  When the boy realized Fortune was looking back at him, a blush fought its way through his tan. Averting his eyes, he stepped away from the window.

  Fortune looked down at the calico. But from the corner of her eye she tried to keep track of her admirer. After a moment of indecision he stepped into the store.

  He was taller than Fortune had realized, easily more than six feet. His shapeless cotton shirt did nothing to hide his broad shoulders and narrow hips. A slight curl of brown hair at the neck of the shirt completed the picture. Fortune realized with a start that he had what th
e ladies in Charleston had called “boyish charm”—and lots of it.

  “Afternoon, Jamie,” said Mr. MacKenzie with a slight nod. “What can I do for you?”

  “I need fifty pounds of flour,” said Jamie. He was looking sideways at Fortune, trying hard to pretend he didn’t notice her.

  “You must be planning on a lot of baking,” said Fortune with a laugh. She realized she was in one of her teasing moods, something her father had always claimed was a bad thing for any innocent bystanders. She looked Jamie over, feeling very sophisticated. He was handsome, but such a bumpkin he probably had hayseeds in his hair.

  Jamie was blushing again. “My mother feeds a lot of people.”

  “I imagine you must help her,” said Fortune slyly. “You should make someone a wonderful husband.”

  Even the tips of Jamie’s ears were crimson now. But instead of retreating, he clenched his jaw and looked directly into her eyes.

  “I suppose I would,” he said. “Are you interested?”

  At once the color drained from his face. Tossing the sack of flour over his shoulder as if it weighed nothing, he rushed from the store in embarrassment.

  “What’s the matter with the lad?” asked Mr. Patchett, storking his way through the door. “He almost ran me down. And he looked paler than Walter when he’s made up to be the ghost of Hamlet’s father!”

  Fortune began to laugh. MacKenzie looked at her and lifted an eyebrow.

  “I know, I know,” she said. “That was cruel, and I shouldn’t have done it. But he was just so…so…”

  It was the storekeeper’s turn to chuckle. “You can explain when you see him again,” he said.

  Fortune looked startled. “What do you mean?”

  MacKenzie’s smile grew broader. “That was Jamie Halleck. You’re staying at his mother’s house.”

  Fortune groaned. She had done it again!

  Chapter Two

  Jamie Halleck placed a huge platter of fried chicken on the table. Casting a sidelong look at Fortune, he left the room.

  Fortune felt herself flush.