Boston Jane (15 page)

“What are you doing?” I asked indignantly.

Champ took off his hat. “Well, ma’am, I jest need this here shirt fixed. It’s got a powerful tear on the back.”

“Did Mr. Russell inform you that you could put your mending in this pile?”

“No,” he said sheepishly. And then added, “But he didn’t say I couldn’t.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“I don’t know.” He cleared his throat. “But all the boys been putting their clothes here!”

“All the boys?” I whispered dangerously.

“Near as I can figure.”

“You mean … to tell me … that I have been doing … the
mending … for
all
the filthy men of Shoalwater Bay?” I asked slowly.

The man blanched.

“Kindly inform
all the boys
that I will not be doing any more mending! Do you understand?”

Champ nodded, shamefaced.

I stomped around the cabin and confronted Mr. Russell where he was milking his loathsome cow.

“Mr. Russell!” I stamped my foot.

His eyes flicked over, acknowledging me.

“Did you know that every pioneer in this territory has been putting his mending in that pile?”

“Might have.”

“I am not a maid!”

“Ya can sew and wash, can’t ya?”

“I am a lady, and I will only do mending for you and Mr. Swan. Is that clear?”

He shrugged, spat a wad of tobacco, and went back to milking.

It wasn’t until I was back in the cabin that I noticed the glob of tobacco sticking wetly to the tip of my shoe.

“Blasted man,” I muttered.

Yelloh had been gone for a week and I had not received a word of his progress. Then a second week passed.

Then a third.

I grew more frustrated at my situation, but there was little I could do but bide my time in this increasingly grim country. It
rained nearly every day, a gray, drizzly mist that seeped into my skin and made me feel altogether detestable. It proved entirely impossible to keep my shoes dry. I began to understand why the Indians went about barefoot. The weather made such uncivilized behavior seem civilized.

After supper one evening, Mr. Russell said, “How ‘bout some coffee, gal?”

If there was one thing I could do, it was pour coffee!

“I’d be delighted to pour the coffee,” I said, remembering the helpful hints from Pouring Tea and Coffee (Chapter Three). As there were no children present, I wouldn’t have to worry about the strength of it, and Miss Hepplewhite always said that men preferred coffee with just a spoonful of sugar.

“Not just pour it, gal,” Mr. Russell said. “Ya gotta make it, too.”

“Make it?”

“It don’t make itself.” His whiskers twitched. “Ya do know how to make coffee, don’t ya, gal?”

The men were all staring at me as if I were stupid. Was I really so ignorant as not to know how to make such a simple thing?

I pulled myself up. “Of course I do.”

He grunted.

In actual fact Mrs. Parker or Mary had always been the ones to make the coffee and I had been the one to pour it, but how difficult could it be? I went over to the shelves where Mr. Russell kept the supplies and found the tin of coffee beans. Sitting on a lower shelf were salt, cinnamon, peppercorns, and sugar. Behind
the peppercorns was a grinder. Easy enough.

“Don’t forget to clean the grinder, gal,” Mr. Russell ordered.

The grinder was already coated a thick black. Clearly cleaning it was not something that was usual to the routine of making coffee. I nodded, but I had no intention of being ordered about any more than necessary by that man.

I poured some beans into the grinder, ground them up well, and then added them to the coffeepot to boil. I set out tin cups and had the milk and sugar at the ready. After the coffee was well boiled, I poured it into the cups, added milk and sugar, and brought everything to the table.

Mr. Swan smiled appreciatively. “It smells lovely, my dear.”

He took a hearty swallow. His eyes bulged in shock and immediately began to water.

Jehu, who had taken a swallow at the same time, started to choke. He knocked over his chair and ran for the door.

Father Joseph spewed his coffee across the table and started coughing violently. He clutched his mouth, shot me a look of horror, and also ran out of the cabin.

Handsome Jim stared at his coffee with trepidation.

“Dang gal, what are ya trying to do? Kill us?” Mr. Russell shouted. He was red in the face from coughing. He threw his tin cup at the cabin wall. It landed with a bang.

“I don’t understand!”

“Thar’s pepper in this here coffee!”

I heard someone retching outside.

“Pepper?” I sniffed at a cup. It
did
smell slightly of pepper. “But how did it get there?”

“The grinder, gal! Ya got to clean the grinder! How do ya think we get pepper?”

“How was I to know it was pepper?” I asked, throwing my hands up.

He sneezed loudly.

“Everyone knows, gal! Everyone ‘cept you because yar so dang useless!”

“I am not useless!”

“Ya are! Yar plain useless!” he roared, and then let out a tremendous sneeze right in my face.

Can you imagine my humiliation? I stormed out of the wretched cabin and marched down to the beach. I stared miserably out at the bay, at the
Lady Luck
anchored there, my mind working furiously. It had never been my intention to come west so that I could become maid to a gang of unruly men! They were ungrateful, ungracious louts, every last one of them!

Jehu followed me down to the beach. His eyes were still watering.

“You sure can pour a cup of coffee,” he said dryly.

“He is the most horrible man in the world!” I burst out. “I hate him! And I am not useless. I can do many things. Why, I can embroider and paint watercolors and pour tea and coffee and I know how to manage a household and arrange flowers and send out invitations and—”

Jehu stared at me silently.

“It’s not my fault I don’t know how to cook!” I cried. “That was Mary’s job!”

“Jane,” Jehu said patiently. “This isn’t Philadelphia. I know
it’s hard, but Mr. Russell’s right. You have to pitch in.”

“I already do the mending,” I said stubbornly.

“Yes,” he said. “But who do you think chops the wood, and milks the cow, and catches the fish, and cleans the fire, and every other little thing that needs doing? Everyone works. There aren’t any servants here. The least you could do is help with the meals.”

“But I don’t know how to cook!”

He looked me in the eye and said, “Then learn.”

Yelloh appeared at first light. It was not a minute too soon.

It had been a terrible night in Mr. Russell’s cabin. The men had been up coughing and sneezing from the pepper, and Mr. Russell had been the worst. Between coughing fits he had muttered, “Dang useless gal.”

I was sitting on the horrible little porch darning a sock when Yelloh appeared. At the grim look on his face, my heart fell.

“Where’s William?” I demanded, fearing the worst. “Has something happened to William? Why isn’t he with you?”

Yelloh shook his head. He had no idea what I was saying. I looked about for help.

“Handsome Jim!” I waved him over.

Handsome Jim greeted Yelloh, and the two began speaking in Chinook.

“Handsome Jim,” I broke in. “Ask him where William is.”

He nodded and spoke to Yelloh.

“Yelloh says he miss Boston William by two days,” Handsome Jim explained.

“Blast it! But why didn’t he go after William?” I asked wildly.

“Yelloh says Boston Jane tell him twelve days only.”

I looked at Yelloh in frustration. “But William was so close!”

“Yelloh says Boston Jane tell him twelve days only,” Handsome Jim said seriously. “Yelloh, he is very good man. He not cheat you.”

I shook my head at the ridiculousness of it.

“Ask him if he knows where William is now.”

Handsome Jim turned to Yelloh, who said emphatically, “
Narwitka!
” The ring in his nose swung slightly.

“Certainly,” Handsome Jim beamed.

“Where?”

The two men conferred.

“Well?” I demanded.

“Very far,” Handsome Jim said.

“How far?”

“A month.”

A month! It had cost me four silver dollars to have him travel twelve days. I would never be able to afford a whole month in each direction!

I ran into the cabin and rummaged in my chest. I ran back out and thrust my six silver dollars into Yelloh’s hand.

“This is all the money I have! Will you please find him?” I pleaded.

Yelloh hesitated and looked at Handsome Jim.

Handsome Jim murmured something softly. I pressed the silver coins into Yelloh’s hand.

“Please,” I begged.

After a moment he nodded, and I felt the breath go out of me in relief.

Handsome Jim looked at Yelloh and back to me. “He find Boston William.”

A month out and a month back.

It was nearly June, and I was going to be stranded here well past July by the looks of things. Two more months of horrid Mr. Russell, who had not forgiven me for the coffee incident. And then there was Suis. The Chinook woman glared at me every time she saw me. I had clearly offended her in some way but knew not how.

It was awful. Time passed so slowly here without Mary. The voyage on the ship had been terrible, but at least Mary and I had had each other for company.

To cheer myself up, I had taken William’s old letters and gone down to the bay to sit under my parasol in the drizzling rain and reread them. I knew William would want me to be brave, but Shoalwater Bay was such a disagreeable place that just thinking about it put me in a grim mood.

Not to mention I had received no letters from Papa. Of course, I knew this was too much to expect, as insufficient time had passed for him to have even received my first letter, let alone respond to it. Assuming, of course, that my missive had not been routed via the China Sea.

I had written Papa upon my arrival saying that we’d landed, and I was well, and the sad news about Mary. But I had been careful to avoid mentioning William. I could not bear the thought of having to inform Papa that William was missing. It
would merely serve to confirm his poor opinion of William. I would wait, I decided, until William had returned and we were wed, to send Papa a second letter.

With a sigh I got up and started back to the dreary cabin.

As I walked along the path, something orange-red caught my eye.

Cherries?

No, the strange berry resembled a blackberry except it had an unusual orange-red color.

A sudden image of Mrs. Parker’s cherry pie came to me.

Mr. Swan was sitting at the sawbuck table scribbling in his diary when I returned to the cabin.

“Mr. Swan, do you know what this is?” I asked, holding out the small berry.

“Hello, my dear.” He peered over the rim of his glasses. “That is a salmonberry. I am particularly fond of them myself.”

“Do you think I could make a pie with them?”

Mr. Swan looked very uncomfortable. “I suppose it is possible to make a pie using salmonberries,” he said hesitantly, as if to say, it’s very possible for someone to make a pie using salmonberries, just not you, my dear.

The look on his face made me more determined than ever.

Now I just needed to figure out how to make a pie. I had vague memories of Mrs. Parker making her cherry pie, but memories would not do. Jehu knew how to cook, I remembered, thinking of the chicken broth he had once made for Mary. Perhaps he could help.

I found him on the beach, supervising the sailors as they cut
a piece of timber for the new mainmast on the
Lady Luck
. He stopped what he was doing when he saw me and walked over.

A sliver of sunshine broke out from behind the clouds, sending light dancing across the smooth bay.

“Do you know how to make a pie?” I asked.

“Why?” He squinted into the sun.

“I found some salmonberries. I thought I’d try to make one, only I don’t know how.”

“Don’t know how to make one myself.”

I stared at him in disappointment. I was so sure he would know.

“Did you say Mary was a cook?” he asked.

“Yes. She wanted to open a boardinghouse here and cook for the men.”

“Maybe she had some receipts in her things. Cooks I know like to write these things down.”

I ran all the way back to the cabin. I had put Mary’s things in my trunk after she died. She’d brought a small sack with her, and I hadn’t been able to bring myself to look inside it before, but I did now. Her possessions spilled out on the sawbuck table. An apron, well-used wooden spoons, a rolling pin, a thick piece of cloth that smelled of flour, a pot, a pie plate, and a small diary.

I paged carefully through the diary, which wasn’t really a diary at all. It was a collection of receipts. Biscuits and gravy. Fricasseed chicken. Roasted pork and apples. My mouth watered just reading the words. Sponge cake. Rice custard. Bird’s nest pudding. Lemon drops. Fritters. Doughnuts. Gingerbread. And …

Mrs. Parker’s Cherry Pie!

“Take half a peck of cherries …”

As I read the receipt I could almost hear Papa’s deep laugh, smell Mrs. Parker’s kitchen, feel the warmth of the stove. It was all so very far away. As far away as Mary, at the bottom of the cold, dark ocean. I closed my eyes, clutching the small, dear book to my heart.

I couldn’t bring her back, but I could do one thing.

I could make a pie.

Mr. Russell had most of the ingredients I needed. I took a pail and went into the woods and picked salmonberries.

I followed Mary’s instructions carefully, using her rolling pin and wearing her apron. To my surprise, I found that I enjoyed it. It wasn’t nearly so hard as it looked. But I couldn’t help feeling a pang for Mary. Here I was cooking for men to earn my keep, doing exactly what she had wanted to do. It made me feel unsettled in a way that was hard to define.

Mr. Russell was very cool to me all during supper that evening.

“I have a surprise, Mr. Russell,” I said in a bright voice.

His whiskers jerked irritably. “I don’t like surprises, gal,” he said shortly.