Boston Jane (21 page)

“I can’t promise the shoes, but I most certainly can get you fabric.”

“Come on, Swan,” Mr. Russell said.

I knew by the way he was pursing his lips that he was going to spit, and I quickly stepped to the side. Sure enough, a great gob of tobacco landed on the sand. But not on me! It seemed I had the mountain man figured out at last.

“Good-bye, my dear. I’m sure you’ll be fine. See you in a few weeks!” Mr. Swan called happily as he walked down to the waiting canoe.

I couldn’t help but wonder if this was how he had left his wife and children in Boston.

I stared at the empty cabin.

Since I was stuck, I decided I might as well take the opportunity to rid Mr. Russell’s cabin of bugs and give it a proper cleaning. As Mr. Swan had suggested, I asked Handsome Jim to come and stay with me, and he readily agreed.

Handsome Jim helped me haul out all the blankets. I washed them in the stream and hung them on the line to dry, far away from Mr. Russell’s cow. Then I dusted all the shelves and organized the provisions. After that I ripped off the horrible animal skin window coverings and stitched some plain curtains out of several embroidered handkerchiefs that still remained in my trunk. I swept every inch of the cabin and made Handsome Jim take down the immense rotten cougar skin and stow the stinking thing behind the cabin. I was determined to be rid of the fleas once and for all.

Finally I dragged Brandywine over to the stream and proceeded to give him a bath. He whined pitifully.

“You are infested with fleas, Brandywine,” I said, scrubbing
the dog’s hide. The fleas fairly leaped off Brandywine and onto me as if trying to avoid their fate.

Brandywine jumped and splashed and attempted to run away, but I chased after him and dragged him back to the water, soaking myself in the bargain.

“Boston Jane like baths,” a voice said.

It was Suis, and she had a basket in her arm. I expected she wanted to trade.

I let go of Brandywine and he took off into the brush, no doubt to find more fleas. I climbed out of the stream, pushing the wet hair out of my face.

“For Boston Jane,” Suis said, and passed me the basket. “For lodge.”

“Trade?”

She pressed the basket into my arms. “Gift.”

I peered in. Smoked salmon and berries were nestled in the sturdy beargrass basket. The basket had an intricate design of a crane woven into it. I wondered how many hours of work it had taken to make such a lovely thing.

“Oh Suis. Thank you,” I said. “Won’t you come in and have some coffee?”

Her eyes brightened. Suis was very fond of coffee, although Mr. Russell had warned her to avoid any I made.

She smiled and sat down at the sawbuck table, and I put water on to boil.

“Do you do all the trading for your family?” I asked to make conversation.

“Women make best traders,” she said, eyes flashing.

“Doesn’t Chief Toke mind?”

She shrugged. “Toke gets what Toke wants.”

It seemed so unladylike. I knew instinctively that Miss Hepplewhite would not have approved. “Boston women don’t trade.”

“Boston women, what do they do?”

“Do?” This sounded suspiciously like something Jehu would ask.

“I do many things. Trade. Fish. Paddle own canoe.” Suis ticked off her list as efficiently as Miss Hepplewhite.

“Boston women are supposed to be pious and meek and modest,” I explained. All at once I remembered Papa asking if I was going to let my brain rot and tongue drop out from lack of good use.

“What means pious?”

“To attend church. You know, Father Joseph’s house,” I said, gesturing in the general direction of his chapel.

“Boston Jane, you not go to
leplate
house.” The Chinooks called Father Joseph “
leplate
” after the French word for priest,
le prêtre
.

Well, she had a point, but I had my reasons. I tried to explain in a way she would understand. “Pious means believing in the spirit world.”

“You not believe in
memelose tillicums
.”

I sighed in frustration.

There was a moment of silence and then Suis asked, “What means modest?”

“To be quiet.”

She laughed and shook her head sharply. “You not quiet. Boston Jane, you not good Boston woman.”

“Of course I am!” I clearly just needed to practice Listening Well.

Suis raised an eyebrow. “Boston women mend roof?”

“Well, not as a general rule.”

“Boston women have oyster beds?”

I stared at her steadily, drumming my fingers on the table. “I suppose not.”

She nodded her head as if to say,
Exactly
. “Boston Jane not good Boston woman.”

Was Suis right? Was I no longer a respectable young lady?

I remembered Miss Hepplewhite’s parting words of advice:

“Jane, you are entering a time of great danger and temptation. Remember this valuable rule.
Never forget who you are
. It is your duty to be ever a proper young lady and serve as an example that will make me, and your schoolmates, proud.”

I fell into an uneasy sleep that night.

I was back in Philadelphia and dressed in my Chinook skirt, my hair hanging loose down my back. Familiar sights met my eyes—carriages clattering down cobblestone streets, ladies and gentlemen strolling, newsboys shouting.

And then I saw Sally Biddle walking down Arch Street toward me wearing my white velvet wedding dress, a man on her arm, his face bowed.

“Why look,” she said. “It’s Jane Peck, back from the frontier!”

Strangers stopped and stared at me.

“And she’s brought the latest fashions!”

I shrank away.

“That is, if you want to go about looking like a filthy savage!” Sally Biddle burst out in peals of laughter.

The man at her side looked up, and I could suddenly see his face clearly. The gray eyes and beautiful teeth.

William!

I woke with a start. The cabin was quiet, save for the sound of the fire crackling and Handsome Jim’s light snores. I groaned and pulled the pillow over my head.

I was just about to drift off to sleep when I felt the weight of someone sitting gently on the bed beside me. An owl hooted outside the cabin.

“Get off the bed, Brandywine,” I muttered crankily from under the pillow. But the weight did not move. I held my breath. And then I heard the unmistakable sound of water dripping on the floor beside my bed.

Except it wasn’t raining.

Slowly I peeked out from under the pillow.

Mary was sitting on the edge of my bunk, dripping wet, her skin glowing a sickly, unnatural white in the moonlight pooling through the windows. Reproach glittered in her eyes. Reproach and something else, something like anger.

She leaned forward, and water from her hair fell on my arm in stinging drops.

“No!” I shouted, and then she was gone.

“Boston Jane?” Handsome Jim asked sleepily. He squinted at me from across the room. The sight of his familiar face calmed me somewhat.

“I had a bad dream,” I whispered, staring across the bunk. “About Mary. My friend who died on the voyage here.”

He nodded. This was something he understood.

“Memelose,”
he said.

“No, it’s not a ghost,” I said shakily. “It’s just a bad dream.”

Handsome Jim shook his head. “
Memelose
speak in dreams.” He pointed at my forehead, where there was still a small scar from my recent fall. “Mary try to kill you and take you to spirit world.”

“Nonsense,” I said. “It was an accident. I tripped.”

“Change name,” he insisted. “Change name now or
memelose
find you.”

I shook my head. “I can’t do that. It’s the only thing I have left that reminds me of who I am. I am Miss Jane Peck of Philadelphia and that is that.”

“Change name now,” he said stubbornly.

“If I change my name I shan’t even know who I am anymore!”

He looked at me with liquid eyes.

“You know,” he said simply.

Being haunted by an angry ghost was the very worst sort of bad luck. For in the days that followed, it seemed I caught glimpses of Mary everywhere.

I would come back from the outhouse in the middle of the
night and there she would be, lying on my bunk among my rumpled blankets, staring at me with her black, angry eyes. Sometimes I would be awakened by Brandywine’s soft growls to see her standing by the fire, her hands held out as if to warm them. And once I thought I felt her icy fingers tangle in my curls as I brushed my hair.

I took to inviting Suis and Sootie and even Father Joseph to supper as often as possible. I was grateful for the company and furthermore, I harbored a hope that the presence of so many people would keep Mary away.

One evening after a lovely salmon supper we sat in front of the warm fire. It had been a good day. I had not seen Mary once.

Brandywine circled the table, begging for salmon.

Father Joseph was instructing Sootie and Suis and Handsome Jim in the ways of the church. From what I had heard, he was not having very much success converting any of the Indians, but he was tireless.

He explained in detail how Jesus was crucified.

“Boston god is very bad,” Handsome Jim said, narrowing his eyes.

Suis nodded in agreement.

“Why do you say that?” Father Joseph asked, perplexed.

“Boston god kill son,” Handsome Jim said solemnly. “More bad than anything.”

I stifled a laugh.

Father Joseph sighed. “I shall never be able to teach them.”

Suddenly Brandywine started growling at the door. Someone
was outside, knocking. It was very late now and I wondered who it could be.

I went to the door.

Mary stood in the dark shadows, staring at me with grim eyes, seaweed hanging from her hair.

I squeezed my eyes shut, willing her to go away.

“Ma’am?”

It was Champ, the pioneer with the dreadful socks.

“Hello, ma’am,” he said, tipping his filthy hat. His eyes were burning red holes in his head, and he was pale.

“I’m afraid that Mr. Russell has gone to Astoria.”

“That sure smells good,” Champ said meaningfully, sniffing the air. “I been traveling all day.”

Traveling? Judging by the smell of whiskey on his breath, I thought it more likely that he had been drinking all day. Even so, I couldn’t very well turn away a hungry soul.

I stepped aside. “Come in and I’ll give you something to eat.”

I sat him down at the table and dished out some salmon. He ate ravenously, as if he hadn’t had food in weeks. When he had finished everything on his plate, I gave him a second helping. He demolished this as well and then leaned back and belched loudly. I had learned to take such belches as signs of appreciation.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, wiping his filthy arm across his mouth. And then he sneezed, right across the table at us. I dearly wished these men knew the value of a pocket-handkerchief.

“You’re welcome,” I said, eyeing him warily, watching out for fleas.

“That was mighty tasty,” he said, his red eyes lingering on Suis in a most ill-mannered way. “Yep, it surely was.”

I was beginning to feel most uncomfortable when—will you believe it?—the man reached across the table, put his hand on Suis’s bare leg, and grinned toothily at her!

Suis recoiled.

“Sir!” I shouted.

Handsome Jim sprang forward.

Sootie scrambled around the table into her mother’s arms.

Champ acted as if nothing untoward had happened.

“It’s mighty late. You reckon I could sleep here tonight? Russell always lets me sleep here when I’m passing through,” he said. His eyes looked glazed and unnaturally bright.

“I think you should find other sleeping quarters,” I said stiffly.

“Hoity-toity! All right then, ma’am. Should think you’d like better company than savages, you a lady and all. They ain’t nought but stupid savages,” he said, and spat at Handsome Jim’s feet.

Handsome Jim stared at him stoically, but his eyes were challenging.

“You are not welcome to stay, sir.” Sensing trouble, Father Joseph took a step forward and glowered at the man. Even though I knew he was a man of peace, his towering frame looked imposing. I could have hugged him.

“Stupid savages,” Champ muttered. He got up slowly from the table and staggered out the door and into the dark night.

I knelt in front of the stream and splashed cold water in my face. Then I tipped the bucket and let the water rush in, wondering what to do.

A week and a half after the disturbing incident with Champ, Handsome Jim had awakened, burning with fever. I had bathed his forehead with cool water, but he had just thrown off his blankets and looked at me with fever-mad eyes, shouting, “
Memelose, memelose
.”

I had been nursing him for several days and now I wasn’t feeling very well myself, although my feelings had nothing to do with Handsome Jim’s mysterious illness. I had spent all of the previous night staying up with him. Toward dawn I had drifted off to sleep in a chair by the fire, only to be awakened by a cold, wet prickling on my spine.

A cold, wet, all-too-familiar prickling.