Boston Jane (11 page)

Mr. Swan wrinkled his nose, and his spectacles slid a little lower down his face. “William’s house?”

“Yes.”

“Well. Hmmph. I’m rather afraid—” He cleared his throat. “I’m rather afraid William has no house of his own, my dear.”

“What?” I asked, my voice wavering.

“He has always stayed with us in the cabin,” he said simply.

I could hardly believe my ears. I was here on my own with nowhere to live? It was impossible. William would never do this to me. He was a gentleman. Certainly this was all a mistake!

“But surely there are other houses in the settlement?” I faltered.

Mr. Swan shifted uncomfortably. “Miss Peck. I’m afraid that the cabin
is
the settlement. I thought William had told you.”

“Are there no houses at all?”

Mr. Russell narrowed his eyes at me and spat a wad of tobacco, narrowly missing my skirt. “Well, gal, I reckon ya’ve come to the wrong place if yar expecting bricks and steps.”

“But William wrote that he’d arranged for ‘comfortable accommodations,’” I said desperately, reciting William’s words by heart.

Mr. Swan scratched his beard thoughtfully. “Well, Mr. Russell’s cabin is very pleasant. Marvelously warm when the cold wind blows off the bay.” He turned and started toward the cabin again.

I felt faint. William was missing. Mary was dead. Papa was far away. And here I was in the middle of the wilderness with no place to stay.

As I looked around anxiously, another realization struck home.

“Mr. Swan!” I called.

“Yes, Miss Peck?”

“Where are the other women?”

“Why, Miss Peck,” Mr. Swan said, pushing his spectacles up. “They’re right in front of you.” He pointed to the group of savages.

“I meant the other
ladies
,” I clarified.

“Oh,” he said. “I’m afraid there aren’t any others. You’re the only one.”

I swear I heard Sally Biddle laughing at me all the way back in Philadelphia.

I peered into the
dark doorway of the miserable cabin. The floorboards of the porch creaked dangerously under my feet.

A motley gathering of filthy pioneer men and savages were sitting around on rough benches drinking whiskey. A rotten odor permeated the air. No doubt it came from the men themselves.

“Pardon me, but where am I to sleep?” I called from the doorway, holding my handkerchief to my nose. The men ignored me.

I knew that a gracious guest should not interfere with the domestic routine of the house, but the only routine here seemed to involve getting drunk. Clearly any instructions and helpful hints from Being a Good Guest (Chapter Eleven) would be wasted on this vulgar group.

I squinted through the single smoke-filled room. Two tiny windows covered with greasy-looking animal skins let in less light than the chinks in the walls. Hard-looking wooden bunks
lined two walls. A rickety set of rough-hewn shelves burdened with sacks of flour, potatoes, and spices lined another wall. Every surface was covered with a thick layer of dust and grit. The floor was hard-packed dirt, and I could tell from the way the shadows moved that there was more than dirt on the floor. Vermin.

It was frightful.

Summoning all my courage, I walked into the room, and as I did something struck me in the face.

I looked up, startled.

An enormous dead cougar hung from the rafters, its teeth frozen in a snarl.

I screamed.

“What ya hollering for?” Mr. Russell drawled, his whiskers twitching.

“Where am I to sleep!” I shouted in sheer frustration.

A hush came over the room. All eyes fixed on me.

“Do any of you selfish louts understand what a lady requires?” I asked peevishly. Sometimes strong language is regrettable but necessary.

“Sleep?” Mr. Swan blinked and looked about. “Why, here, of course.”

I was speechless.

“I’ll be moving into my own home in a few weeks’ time, and you will be most welcome there,” Mr. Swan said kindly.

“Stay
here
?” I said at last. I was dumbfounded. Miss Hepplewhite didn’t even consider it proper for unmarried ladies and gentlemen to sit on the same picnic blanket, and here was
Mr. Swan proposing that I
sleep
in the same room as these vulgar men! It was utterly unthinkable!

Mr. Swan gave me a fatherly smile and said reassuringly, “You have nothing to fear, Miss Peck.”

I pulled myself up, smoothing my skirt and straightening my bonnet.

“Mr. Swan, I must protest. I can’t possibly sleep here.”

“We don’t snore, gal,” Mr. Russell said, spitting, and this time I swear he aimed right at my petticoats! I leaped back, barely avoiding the gob of wet, chewed tobacco. And to think that when I was a girl, I had considered spitting amusing.

“Well, Mr. Swan? There simply must be somewhere else I can stay,” I said in a reasonable tone.

“I’m afraid, Miss Peck, there is nowhere else.”

Before I could take in the enormity of Mr. Swan’s words, a young savage about my age entered the doorway of the cabin carrying my trunk from the
Lady Luck
.

My mouth nearly dropped open in astonishment.

I had never seen such a handsome young man in all my life. Except William, of course, but even he seemed a hazy memory compared to this finely muscled body. The savage in question had liquid eyes, flowing hair, and a radiant smile, and despite myself, I stared at him. He was remarkably pleasing to the eye.

I stared at the comely young man and he grinned back at me, plainly amused and quite aware of his appeal. There was certainly something charming about him. I felt heat rise to my cheeks.

Jehu snorted.

“Miss Peck, may I introduce Handsome Jim?” Mr. Swan said formally.

Handsome Jim puffed out his chest and bowed. I swallowed and curtsied quickly.

“His name is truly Handsome Jim?” Father Joseph asked.

“I should say it suits him,” I said before I could stop the words.

Mr. Swan laughed while I blushed at my indiscretion.

“I agree,” Mr. Swan said, his eyes twinkling. “And he is most fond of our mirrors and admiring his reflection in the water. He used to be Handsome Tom, but he changed his name recently. Isn’t that right, Jim?”

Handsome Jim looked suddenly nervous but nodded. It was clear enough that he understood English.

“Changed his name?” Father Joseph asked with a sniff of disdain. “These savages can’t even remember their own names and must change them?”

Mr. Swan shook his head.

“My dear fellow, it is the habit of these Indians to change their names when one of their kin dies. It is their belief that the spirit of the departed soul comes back and haunts them, attempting to lure them to the other side. They change their names to fool the spirits.”

Handsome Jim nodded sagely and said, “
Memelose tillicums
.”

“
Memelose tillicums
are dead people,” Mr. Swan explained. “Spirits.”

“How on earth do they keep track of each other if they change their names all the time?” I asked.

“With their eyes, gal,” Mr. Russell said flatly.

“Where you want this?” Handsome Jim asked, gesturing to the trunk in the doorway.

“You may put my trunk there, for now,” I said, turning my attention back to the matters at hand. “Mr. Swan, I can’t possibly sleep here. You must see my position. It simply isn’t proper.”

Mr. Swan scratched his head and said finally, “I suppose we could fix you up a tent.”

“A tent?” The cabin suddenly had its attractions. At least it had a roof.

Something small and furry scampered across the filthy dirt floor with a squeak, and I reconsidered.

“A tent will have to do until William returns,” I said, resigned. I had never felt so utterly alone. I would have done anything to hear Papa’s voice telling me that I was his favorite daughter.

Mr. Swan and Handsome Jim fitted up a small tent for me using a spare canvas sail. They flung the canvas over a sturdy-looking branch and secured it with wooden stakes. Handsome Jim gave me some mats woven from reeds to put on the ground. It seemed a very flimsy affair but would have to suffice for the time being.

“I’ve spent many a night under that sail. It’s a good one,” Mr. Swan said, surveying their work.

“I am in your debt, Mr. Swan.”

“Miss Peck, are you certain that you really want to be sleeping out here?” They had set up the tent within plain sight of Mr. Russell’s cabin. “It’s much warmer in Mr. Russell’s
cabin, you know. There’s plenty of room.” Mr. Swan paused meaningfully. “And the spring rains can be very terrible. It is still April yet.”

“I’ll be perfectly fine. Thank you anyway,” I declined politely.

“Thar’s the varmints,” Mr. Russell said. He had come outside, no doubt to spit at me.

What about the varmints in his cabin? I shook my head firmly. I preferred to take my chances outside.

Just then, a potbellied black dog raced up to us, took a flying leap in my direction, knocked me flat onto the ground, and set about licking my face enthusiastically.

Mr. Swan smiled. “Miss Peck, may I introduce Brandywine?”

I pushed the slobbering hound away.

“Blasted beast!”

My face was now sticky with dog drool and my dress covered with muddy paw prints and grass stains. All I could think was that I had to be clean that very instant.

“Mr. Swan,” I asked, “could someone kindly draw me a warm bath?”

“Draw ya a bath?” Mr. Russell hooted.

“But surely one of the savages could—”

Mr. Swan interrupted me gently. “They are not servants, Miss Peck. And you ought not to call them savages. They are friends. And I’m sorry to say that we have no bathtub.”

I stared at him. No bathtub? It was little wonder the men were so utterly filthy.

“But I’m sure the
Indian
women will be happy to conduct you
to the spring to bathe. The Chinooks are great bathers, my dear. Much like the ancient Romans,” Mr. Swan said. “I’ll just go see.”

I was rather surprised to hear that savage Indians bathed more often than white men, but upon closer inspection it appeared that they did. Mr. Russell looked downright greasy in his buckskins compared to Handsome Jim.

Mr. Swan went over to where the women were congregated and brought back an extremely pretty one with almond eyes and long, straight black hair tied back in a braid. She was wearing one of the scandalous skirts. A young girl trailed behind her.

“This is Suis. She is married to Chief Toke.”

She seemed very young to be married to the older man, as she couldn’t be more than twenty-five. Her eyes lingered on my hair.

“Is there no way to get some hot water for a bath?” I pleaded. “I haven’t had a proper bath in months.”

“Ain’t news to me,” Mr. Russell guffawed.

“You could greatly benefit from a bath yourself,” I said stiffly, my patience exhausted. I turned to Mr. Swan, drawing myself up. “I can’t go with them. It simply isn’t safe. What if they try to scalp me?”

Mr. Swan chuckled. “They do seem to be rather taken with your red hair, don’t they?”

I hastily tucked my hair under my bonnet and secured it tightly.

“Miss Peck,” Mr. Swan laughed, his belly rolling. “The Chinooks do not scalp. At least these don’t. You’ll be quite safe.”

“But they’re savage Indians!” I said, my voice rising.

He peered at me through his spectacles. “Not savages, my dear, but Indians, certainly.”

“You make no sense!” I cried wildly. “How can they be safe?” Mr. Swan winked. “When in Indian country, it is always safest to travel with Indians.”

I clutched a passably clean towel and the last bar of lavender soap from my trunk and viewed the two women with trepidation. We stood there for a moment, studying each other. Suis looked very much as if she wanted to yank my hair.

“I am Miss Jane Peck,” I said with a slight curtsy, wondering why I even bothered. I entertained little hope of proper conversation from such ignorant creatures. They didn’t even have enough sense not to go around half-naked.

“I am Suis. Come,” the woman said, to my astonishment.

“You speak English?” I asked.

She nodded simply. “I speak English, Chinook, and Jargon.”

Suis started down a narrow path into the dark, thick woods, and the younger girl followed her. Her head was round, not slanted like Suis’s, and her ankles were swollen like those of the girls who worked in the factories in Philadelphia.

I tried to keep up with Suis, but my shoes sank in the muddy trail, and I tripped on my petticoats no matter how high I held them. Miss Hepplewhite would have been very upset to see such draggled petticoats.

Suis stopped abruptly in front of a sparkling clear spring that looked altogether inviting after the long months at sea. The
young girl joined her, and the two of them sat down on a log. For a long moment I stood there, clutching my soap and towel. Was I really to bathe under their watchful eyes? The only people who had ever seen me naked were Mary and Mrs. Parker.

“Thank you,” I said with a tight smile. “You can go back now. I’ll be fine. Really.”

But Suis and the girl just sat there and stared at me. Clearly they had no intention of leaving.

Seeing that I had little option if I wanted a bath, I went behind a thick bush and took off my muddy dress and petticoats. I decided it was best to leave on my corset and pantaloons, for modesty’s sake. I also left on my bonnet as a precaution.

When I reappeared from behind the bush Suis’s eyes went wide. She removed one of the elaborate shell necklaces adorning her neck and held it out in offering.

“You want trade?” she asked, pointing at my corset.

“You want my corset?”

“I trade
hiqua
for colset,” she said, saying the new word almost perfectly except for the
r
.

I hesitated.

“Trade?” Suis demanded.

I did not want to give offense. She was married to the chief, after all. But I needed the corset. It was the only one I had packed. “A respectable young lady never goes out without a corset,” Miss Hepplewhite had advised. It was no trifling matter to give it up. Still I couldn’t help but hear Papa’s voice. “There is nothing fashionable about crushed organs, Janey,” he had said.