The Many Reflections of Miss Jane Deming

by J. Anderson Coats

  When sneaking into Mr. Mercer’s stateroom was just a silly thing Nell tossed out on a lark, the whole idea felt daring and exciting. Now that we’re outside his door, I almost wish I were making socks right now.

  “Shhhhh!” I remind Jer, and he puts his finger to his lips and goes shhhhhh right after me.

  Mr. Mercer’s stateroom is at least three times bigger than ours. There’s a single bed, perfectly made, and a trunk and a washstand, and room to move around.

  Flora barely makes it over the threshold. Her feet are as cold as mine. Nell goes right to Mr. Mercer’s trunk and throws it open. She starts pawing through his clothing so casually, it takes me a long moment to realize exactly what she’s doing—handling shirts and waistcoats and perhaps even undergarments belonging to a man she hardly knows.

  Nell has a sturdier constitution than I ever will.

  I keep hearing footsteps in the corridor that aren’t there. This is where the officers stay, but during the day they’re on deck with the older girls, flirting or being gallant or whatever it is they do.

  “Nell?” Flora whispers.

  “Shhhhhhh!” hisses Jer.

  Nell holds up a pair of britches and chokes on a laugh. I giggle too, because britches are downright foolish-looking when they’re big and floppy and not tiny like Jer’s. Nell plunges her hands into both pockets but comes up with nothing.

  “Everything’s folded,” she complains. “What a fuss-and-feathers dandy! Someone come fold things back up while I keep looking.”

  Flora shakes her head. “I’m hopeless at it.”

  “I can do it,” I reply, which I hope is true, because I want to be someone for Nell. “If Flora will hold Jer.”

  “Down,” Jer says, and I put him down right away, because if he starts squawking we’re done for.

  Nell shoves a pair of britches at me. “Hurry.”

  I fold. I pretend I’m the redheaded laundry girl back in New York, just doing a job. Flora pokes through the frock coats hanging from pegs on the wall. We’re almost at the bottom of the trunk with nothing to show for it when Jer tugs on my skirt. He’s holding a carpetbag very much like mine, only made of silky patterned brocade and not a faded flour sack.

  “Your bag, Daney,” he says. “Shhhhhhh!”

  “Jer, where did you get this?” I gasp. “Put it back right now!”

  Nell kneels and takes the bag. “Thank you, Master Deming. You might well have saved the day.”

  Jer smiles his charming, rascally smile.

  Sure enough, Nell’s cards are stuffed next to a well-thumbed Bible and a half-written sermon on the evil vice of gambling and how it warps a girl’s delicate nature.

  “If Old Pap thinks faro and whist count as gambling,” Nell mutters as she and I finish rearranging Mr. Mercer’s clothing, “he’s clearly got a lot to learn about vice.”

  “Can we go, please?” Flora whispers.

  Nell puts Mr. Mercer’s carpetbag next to his bed, and we flee down the hallway, Jer reminding us to shhhh every other step.

  We make it back to the promenade deck before Nell looks at me and I look at her and Flora looks at both of us, and we all start laughing. Cackling, more like, and falling together in a tangly sort of hug with Jer right in the middle of it.

  We got Nell’s cards back. No one fainted. No one backed out. No one got caught.

  All of us together.

  We.

  It’s long past eight bells, but Nell says a promise is a promise, and she takes Jer’s hand. I don’t have the heart to tell her that I’m so late Miss Gower might not let me stay.

  “I’ll teach him his numbers by dinner,” Nell says with a wink, which means she’s going to take Jer to play cards with Flora, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

  Miss Gower raises one eyebrow as I edge near the lifeboat.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” I tell her. “Arrangements took me a little longer than I thought.”

  “Hmm.” Miss Gower hands me a reader. “In light of the circumstances, your tardiness is excused this time. Please be punctual in the future or there will be consequences. Now then. Open to page three and read from the top, so I might determine your current proficiency.”

  “Yes, ma’am!” I fumble with the reader, since the pages are blowing sharp from the wind off the starboard beam. “The . . . pig . . .”

  The first page goes all right. Miss Gower has me skip to page eight, and that one’s fine too. When I turn to page thirty, the words become a clutter of letters stuck together in ways I stumble and trip over.

  It’s been only two years since I was in school. I should remember more.

  My mind is nowhere near broad enough for Washington Territory.

  Miss Gower doesn’t smirk or sigh. She merely says, “Begin on page eight. This section here, about the boy cutting wood.”

  My eyes are stinging, but I bend over the reader. I can do this. There’s still time.

  Pretty soon I’m right there with the boy and his dull axe. There’s even a hollow thudding somewhere behind me, as if the promenade deck were the snowy wood from page nine, but then Miss Gower says sharply, “Mrs. Deming, what—?”

  Someone grabs my elbow and drags me harsh and grating over the side of the lifeboat.

  “Mrs. Deming, that’s hardly necessary,” Miss Gower says sternly. “You could have simply asked your daughter to exit the boat.”

  “I hardly think so. Jane does not always do as she’s told. If she did, she wouldn’t be here.” Mrs. D swings to face me, Jer clinging to her hand. “Jane, why did I find Jer in the company of that . . . Nell Stewart . . . person?”

  Everything I can think to say will just make her more angry.

  “Because that haughty minx said you had better things to do than mind him. And she had the nerve to tell me I ought to mind my own child and not impose on you so much.” Mrs. D’s eyes narrow. “Tell me, Jane. Do I impose on you?”

  I shake my head. I stare at my feet.

  “Because it sounds to me as if you were the one imposing,” Mrs. D goes on, “when you asked a chit like her to mind Jer so you could swan about while others of us are working hard so there’ll be a little money in our pockets come Seattle.”

  “With the socks?” I blurt, because the idea that Seattle men will clamor for hundreds of socks and make our fortune seems silly even for her.

  “Yes, with the socks,” Mrs. D mimics. “I don’t think it’s too much to ask that you work to help this family.” Her voice drops to a whisper-hiss. “We get off this boat with nothing, Jane. The only reason we are even aboard this ship is Mr. Mercer’s charity. Do you really think a handful of coins from the mills kept us all those weeks in Lovejoy’s? Or paid for a trip halfway round the world?”

  Mr. Mercer has always been so full of high-minded talk about enriching the territory with our presence that I figured he was arranging everyone’s passage out of civic-mindedness. It feels blasphemous to think money changed hands at any point for such a noble cause.

  “Mrs. Deming, you are disrupting my school,” Miss Gower says. “Please take your leave.”

  “Gladly. Jane, let’s go.” Mrs. D holds Jer out at arm’s length and he lands on my hip.

  “Your daughter won’t be remaining?”

  “No. Now, Jane.”

  Miss Gower clears her throat. “It’s my understanding—”

  “Frankly, I could give two figs what you understand,” Mrs. D cuts in. “Unless you can teach Jane to knit faster, she can learn nothing useful from you, and that’s the end of it. Good day.”

  I should have known Nell watching Jer would never pass muster with Mrs. D. Only a fool pins all her hopes on something that sounds too good to be true.

  After I put Jer to bed, I go up to the promenade deck in the hope that Flora or Nell might be there and we can amuse ourselves watching the older girls trying to ignore the stink of the whale-oil lanterns as they flirt with the officers. I’m pulling three deck chairs out of the shadows when Nell appe
ars at the top of the starboard ladder, out of breath and glancing over her shoulder every other step.

  I rush over to her. “I’m so sor—”

  She cuts me off with a fierce, lingering hug. “You’re not angry, are you? About your brother? I’d keep him for you. I really would. But . . .”

  I sigh. “Yes. I know, but. Thanks anyway.”

  “Forget about school and come to whist instead,” Nell says. “Now that I’ve got my cards back, Ida May Barlow and Libbie Peebles say we can join their game. Some of the girls have taken over a whole stateroom, and they use it just for cards. There’s a secret knock and everything.”

  “My stepmother says I have to make socks to sell in Washington Territory,” I reply glumly. “All day. Every day. So I can’t play. I’m sorry.”

  “I thought the harpy planned to have all the wealthy bachelors of Seattle eating out of her hand from the moment she stepped on the pier,” Nell teases. “Maybe she’s hoping to impress a textile magnate?”

  “You should see her.” I try to match Nell’s grin. “Petting each pair of socks as she finishes them as if she’s putting money in the bank.”

  “Or almost—oh, drat!” Nell’s eyes widen, and she squeezes my arm before darting off toward the hurricane deck.

  Thad comes around the corner, scanning like a bloodhound. He stomps past me in a cloud of cigar smoke. Mr. Mercer trails behind him. They’re arguing about an incident, and they’re clearly looking for Nell.

  I’ll lie. I’ll say I haven’t seen her all night. A guardian should be guarding. He should be taking Nell’s side.

  Neither Thad nor Mr. Mercer even glances at me.

  They find Nell soon enough. The whole ship’s company can hear the row. Thad, roaring that Nell is a thief and a liar and a whole lot worse. Nell, her voice wavering, shouting that she’s the one who’s been wronged. Mr. Mercer, telling them both to be civil. Then Thad harshly saying they can both be hanged for all he cares.

  Girls and officers keep discussing the moon or music or the news from papers brought from New York, pretending not to hear. But we do. We hear every vicious, hateful word.

  At the widows’ table in the saloon the next morning, I’m amusing Jer by making my knife and fork dance while we wait for porridge. Flora and Nell sit elbow-to-elbow at the families’ table, giggling over something and pointing at Mr. Mercer, who’s three places down from the captain. Thad is reading a newspaper and sipping coffee. It’s as if the hideous row last night never happened.

  Miss Gower comes into the saloon, and instead of sitting where she always does, she plants herself across from Mrs. D.

  “The lifeboat school is in need of an invigilator for the smallest pupils,” Miss Gower tells her without so much as a good morning, “and it’s my understanding your daughter was employed before our departure and knows a measure of hard work.”

  “Stepdaughter.” Mrs. D sips from her dented tin army mug. “Besides, I’d hardly call keeping house work, and Jane has other respon—”

  “The rate of pay will be a dollar a week.”

  I sit up straighter.

  Mrs. D narrows her eyes. “A dollar a week. For in—invegetable—invid—sitting in a lifeboat?”

  “Invigilate. From the Latin, meaning to watch.” Miss Gower might be fighting a smirk. “The youngest children need extra watching, Mrs. Deming.”

  Mrs. D squinches her nose and scowls at her mug, then starts counting on her fingers. She can’t cipher in her head, but I can. A dollar a week over a four-month voyage makes . . . sixteen dollars.

  Sixteen whole dollars. We’d have to knit with pure gold yarn to make that much from socks.

  “All right,” Mrs. D finally says, “but only if you hand Jane’s earnings to me directly. I wouldn’t trust a girl this age to keep her own head on if it wasn’t attached to her neck.” She laughs like they’re sharing a joke, but Miss Gower’s face doesn’t change.

  “This means your son will need to stay with you while she is in my employ. I am paying for your daughter’s undivided attention during this time.”

  “I understand.” Mrs. D smiles, all teeth.

  Miss Gower turns to me and asks, “Is this arrangement suitable to you?”

  What would be suitable is for one of the older girls to agree to run the lifeboat school. A girl Mrs. D has no quarrel with. That girl would hand me a reader, and I’d turn right to page eight, and I’d busy myself broadening my own mind and keeping a promise I’m a little sorry I made.

  But grown-ups don’t often ask what I think, and if they do, they want to hear yes, ma’am or no, ma’am. They don’t look me in the eye or use words like arrangement and suitable. I’ve also never heard anyone call minding little kids what it is—a measure of hard work.

  So I say, “Yes, ma’am,” and I sort of mean it.

  “Then you will present yourself every morning at the lifeboat at precisely eight bells,” Miss Gower replies. “You begin today, and you will be dismissed when the day’s tasks are completed. If that’s acceptable to your mother.”

  Mrs. D gives that gritty smile again. “When can I expect wages paid?”

  “Every other Saturday.” Miss Gower barely glances at her. “Right, Jane. I’ll see you in a little while.”

  Breakfast ends around the seventh bell, so I have half an hour before I must report to the lifeboat. Mrs. D leads Jer away toward the ladies’ cabin, him chattering and happy about spending the morning with his mama.

  I head right for Nell. I must be a mess of worry, because she leans close and whispers, “I’m fine. Really. Old Pap’s got no proof. The whole thing last night looked worse than it was. Thad had been drinking. He’s all bark and no bite. Really.”

  “All right,” I reply, but Thad looks plenty capable of bite, and Nell’s saying really too much for my liking.

  Flora shoulder-bumps me. “Hurrah! You can play cards now!”

  “The harpy’s minding her own child?” Nell asks dryly. “The ground doesn’t feel nearly cold enough.”

  I shake my head and tell them my news.

  “Huh.” Flora squints. “I wouldn’t think an experienced bluestocking teacher like Miss Gower would need a helper for just ten children.”

  Ida May Barlow leans into the saloon and holds up her reticule.

  “Try to come to whist later!” Nell calls over her shoulder as Flora drags her toward the door. “Beg the harpy!” She says it like it would do a darn bit of good.

  Invigilating isn’t hopscotch and it’s not playing cards, but at least I don’t have to make socks with Mrs. D all morning.

  Besides, a dollar a week is a lot of money. Miss Gower wouldn’t hire an invigilator if she didn’t have need of one.

  6

  THE SMALLER KIDS ARE BROUGHT to the lifeboat by their mothers, while the oldest boys ramble over just as eight bells is halfway rung. Miss Gower gives them a Look I thought only mothers knew, but maybe it’s something they teach you in teacher school. By the time eight bells ends, the boys are all sitting, mostly orderly, at the back of the lifeboat.

  They’ve left the seat directly in front of them empty. It’s the place Miss Gower asked them to vacate for me on my first and last day as a student.

  If I’d really left Lowell behind me, I’d sit down without a second thought. I’d already have a reader out and open.

  “Miss Deming, please help Milly and Maude prepare an alphabet recitation.” Miss Gower gestures to the little redheads kicking each other at the front of the boat.

  It takes me a moment to realize she’s talking to me. I’m not a miss, though. Not like Nell or Flora. But perhaps it’s right, if I’m going to invigilate, that I’m not just Jane.

  Milly and Maude are four and five years old, and this is their first time in any sort of school. I try to lead them in saying the alphabet, but they keep mixing up the letters. They don’t even know them all yet, and Milly is convinced x and y are the same letter. They also have that squirmy look Jer gets when he’s made to stay insid
e too long.

  Miss Gower’s satchel is on the deck next to the lifeboat. I pull out a slate—cracked, but I can make do—and draw a clumsy picture of a cat.

  “Who can tell me what this is?” I ask, and when both of them shout out the answer, I show them how to raise their hands and stand to recite and also to hold the boat-edge to keep their balance.

  Milly and Maude like the idea of drawing pictures, so every time they say the alphabet once through properly, we play the guessing game. After a while it gets fun. Milly and Maude are how I picture Jer in a few years, old enough to understand jokes and do what they’re told and not always be damp. The girls are talkative and sweet, even if they can’t tell b from d and m from n. They’re so excited to play the game that they concentrate on the alphabet and help each other when one forgets or makes a mistake.

  Miss Gower comes over. “Whilst I listen to Milly and Maude recite, I would like you to help the boys with their longhand division.” She gestures to the boys my age at the rear of the lifeboat—the Wakeman brothers, Charlie Pettys, and John Henry Wilson. They’re elbowing one another like puppies in a crate and chortling like half-wits because Eugene Chase is crying over a single missed spelling word.

  “Um . . .” What I’m umming around is that I struggle with ciphering. That I’m the last person who should invigilate it. “Ma’am, I . . .”

  Miss Gower cocks her head like an owl, and that’s enough to shut my mouth and send me to the bench in front of the boys. She takes the slate out of my hands and her brows go up when she sees the elephant. All I can do is hold out the rag I’ve been using as an eraser. She rubs away the picture without a word, then chalks a problem and hands the slate back.

  826 divided by 3.

  The boys and I follow the steps as well as I can remember, but each of us ends up with a number that can’t possibly be right. Miss Gower shakes her head, brisk and firm, as each of us recites our answers.