Boston Jane (7 page)

“Dr. Peck seems smart enough to me,” Mary said with a sharp tug to my hair.

“Ouch! Don’t pull so!”

“Why would ya want ta leave?” she asked, waving a hand around my bedroom, at the four-poster bed, the quilt, the curtains.

“You couldn’t possibly understand,” I said.

The brush tugged my scalp painfully.

“Mary! That hurt!”

“Sorry,” Mary said with an innocent grin and a half shrug. “Never learned how to brush hair. We Irish girls don’t understand anything, ya know.”

“Very amusing.” I studied Mary in the mirror. “What about you, Mary? What do you want?”

“Well,” Mary said, looking thoughtful. “I’d like something of my own. Where I’d be my own mistress. Free to do as I pleased.”

She said
free
with such longing that I was startled.

“But Mary, you’re as free as any young woman.”

Mary stared at me and said, “Am I now? Do ya really think so, Miss Jane? I have to make a living, Jane my girl,” she explained patiently. “Ya wouldn’t understand.”

“I’m sure there are a lot of hungry men on the frontier who would appreciate your cooking,” I said.

Her eyes met mine in the mirror.

“I could have a boardinghouse. I could make a fortune,” she said, her dark eyes glinting, warming to the idea. She groaned dramatically. “I’d go there just so I wouldn’t have to comb this tangled mess every blessed day!”

I grabbed Mary’s hand and she smiled at me.

“Would you come with me if I went out west?”

Mary grinned, her eyes bright.

“Jane my girl, what would you do without me?”

It seemed that my very strength wore on Papa, that as the weeks went by, he grew paler and thinner. Following a warm August, September arrived, and with it a dark chill that seemed to settle in my bones. Everyone was in a bad mood, especially Papa, who glared at me whenever I mentioned William’s name.

One night after a particularly strained supper, someone knocked on the door. I assumed it was a patient clamoring for my father’s attentions. Mary appeared at the door of the dining room with a distinguished older-looking man carrying a physician’s satchel.

“Dr. Burns,” she announced, tipping her dark head respectfully.

Papa stood up and shook the other man’s hand. “Thank you for coming, Stanley.” He turned to me. “You remember my colleague, Dr. Burns?”

“Yes, of course.” He had been to the house before. Papa was always bringing people home for supper—other physicians, lawyers, bankers. Once, he even brought a judge!

“Miss Peck.” Dr. Burns nodded his head gravely. He seemed a very somber sort of man.

“You must excuse us, Jane. Dr. Burns and I have some rather urgent matters that require our attention.”

They locked themselves in Papa’s study, and when they emerged Papa’s face was gray.

The next morning he called me into his study. It was icy cold, the fire mere embers, and I wondered how long he had been sitting in the room. He stared into the fireplace, so still that he seemed almost a statue.

“Papa?”

“Janey,” he said, looking up at me. His face was pink and his cheeks were rosy. He looked better than he had in weeks. Perhaps Dr. Burns had given him a tonic.

“You are looking well, Papa,” I said.

He nodded simply. “You are my dearest daughter and I love you very much.”

I wanted to laugh and say, “I’m your only daughter,” but I was too old for such nursery games, and besides, I was angry with him for not letting me marry William.

He paused. “I have made a decision.”

“A decis—”

He held up his hand to silence me. “If it means so much to you to go west and marry William, then I find I cannot stand in your way.”

I could hardly believe it.

“Is this what you truly want?”

“Yes, Papa,” I said quickly. “It is what I want more than anything.”

“Then go,” he said, his voice breaking. His eyes were wet with tears. “If it means that much to you, my dear stubborn girl, then go. You must make your own luck.”

I posted William a letter accepting his offer the very next day.

When Mary and I departed two months later on the
Lady Luck
, Mrs. Parker and Papa came to the docks to bid us farewell. I stood on deck and waved to Papa as we sailed away.

And watched as he and all that I had ever known slowly disappeared.

I was having the
most pleasant dream.

We were in the parlor on Walnut Street. A cheery fire was blazing, and Papa was reading to me from “Rip Van Winkle.” The delicious aroma of Mrs. Parker’s cherry pie mingled in the air with the familiar smell of Papa’s pipe. It was all so warm and safe.

And then, all at once, the ship gave a sickening lurch and I awoke with a start, banging my head on the low ceiling of the cabin.

“Blast!” I shouted, rubbing my head.

“Had a pleasant nap, then, Jane my girl?” Mary asked brightly.

I scowled at her.

With a huff of frustration, I pushed back the sheets and dangled my feet over the edge of the bunk and rested them on the floor. My stockings were immedi ately soaked through. I looked down in dismay. The bucket of seawater Samuel had brought in that morning had sloshed all over the floor.

We had been making do with cold seawater for bathing for the entire trip, and my skin was dreadfully itchy. “I do believe I’d give almost anything for a proper bath,” I said fervently, scratching at my ankle in a most indelicate way.

“Ya ain’t getting any argument from me on that count, Jane my girl,” Mary said with a sniff.

I poured some of the dreaded seawater into the basin and stripped down to my chemise for yet another cold, salty scrubbing. My hipbones jutted sharply against the thin cotton fabric. This voyage had done more good to my waist than four years of avoiding pies. I had lost so much weight that my cheeks were sunken, and what bosoms I’d possessed had shrunk to mere bumps. I had little trouble lacing up my corset these days.

“Ya look like a scrawny lad,” Mary said, disapproval clear in her voice.

“I look like a real young lady now,” I countered. “Being slender and pale and having cheeks white as snow is all the fashion.”

“If ya’ve got the consumption.” Mary snorted.

“Oh Mary!”

“Are ya sure yer not contagious, Jane my girl?” she teased.

I dug through my trunk for a passably clean dress, which I was altogether unlikely to find as almost every stitch of clothing I owned was by now soiled. The very first thing I intended to do when we landed at Shoalwater Bay was launder my clothes.

As Miss Hepplewhite advised, I had packed lightly, being careful to bring only plain, neat dresses, bonnets, stockings, gloves,
and plenty of handkerchiefs. But my most precious possession lay on the bottom of the trunk.

My wedding dress.

We had copied a design from
Godey’s Lady’s Book
. The dress was made of ivory velvet and yards and yards of lace. It had taken Mrs. Parker, Mary, and me nearly two months to make it. And when it became clear that we would miss the first ship to San Francisco I had posted William a second letter informing him of our delay. I hoped he would not be too disappointed but knew he would approve once he saw the dress. It was the most beautiful dress in the entire world. I held it to my chest and smiled.

“I surely hope this lad’s worth crossing two oceans,” Mary said, eyeing the dress skeptically.

I forced myself to remember William’s beautiful gray eyes and his chiseled chin. “Oh Mary, he is,” I replied in a steady voice.

But I felt a tingle of unease, remembering Sally Biddle’s reaction.

Sally Biddle had laughed out loud when I announced my engagement.

“Engaged?” she’d mocked, her lip curling. “Dr. Baldt is clearly deluded. What lies have you been telling him in your letters? The moment he catches sight of that hair of yours he’ll come to his senses.” She’d smiled at me triumphantly. “And you’ll wind up a spinster living among the savages!”

With a sigh I packed away my wedding finery and pulled out a plain green walking dress of cashmere edged with corded velvet ribbon. It had a rather awful stain on the bosom from where a
plate with gravy had fallen on it during a particularly rough night at sea, but it was the most presentable of all my clothes.

“You know what I miss most, Mary?” I said. We often passed the time debating what we missed most. It was usually food, as the fare on board the
Lady Luck
was generally dreadful and the chief reason I had lost so much weight. We had stopped briefly to drop our cargo in San Francisco, and it was rumored we had taken on fresh provisions, but if we had, none had appeared in our cabin.

“What?”

“I would give anything for a slice of Mrs. Parker’s cherry pie,” I said with real longing.

“Or her biscuits and gravy,” Mary said, her eyes shining.

“Or her roast pork and apples.”

With a sigh, I settled down in my bunk, pulled out
The Young Lady’s Confidante
, and began reading aloud to Mary as I had done over the course of the long voyage to help her better herself.

“‘Chapter Three or, Pouring Tea and Coffee. A lady should always pour the first cup of tea from the pot for the youngest guest, as it is likely to be weak, and therefore most suitable for a child,’” I read. “That’s a very sensible idea, don’t you agree, Mary?”

She yawned.

“Miss Hepplewhite says that the way a lady pours tea and coffee is a true sign of her character,” I continued.

Mary snorted. “Where’s the character in pouring a bleeding cup of tea?”

That sounded suspiciously like something Papa would say.

“It requires experience and judgment and exactness to add
the perfect combination of sugar and cream to each guest’s taste,” I said earnestly.

“Ain’t nothing special about adding sugar if yer lucky enough to have the money for it.”

“Don’t be obstinate, Mary. Pouring tea is the truest test of a lady. Miss Hepplewhite says that a young lady who can pour a good cup of tea will always find a husband.”

“Jane my girl, I know ya mean well, but I think yer daft. Ya know what I want in a husband?”

“What?”

Mary leaned back against her pillow and stared at a spider working its way lazily across the cabin ceiling.

“I want a man who’ll let me be. Someone who isn’t always telling me what to do.”

I stared at her.

“I’m tired of being told what to do,” she said firmly. “I have a head on my shoulders, thank you very much.”

“Well, my ideal is a man who brings out the best in me,” I said, remembering how kind William had been to see potential in an ill-mannered girl who ran around all day with pie stains on her dress—a girl, it was plain to see, who had no sense.

“Aye, that’s very agreeable,” Mary said, clutching the pillow to her like a sweetheart. “When two people complement each other so perfectly.” When she said it, it sounded like “pair-fectly.”

“If it weren’t for William, I’d be a completely different sort of person,” I went on.

Mary dropped the pillow. “That’s not exactly what I meant, Jane my girl.”

I picked up the pillow. “I owe everything to William. He’s the whole reason I attended Miss Hepplewhite’s.”

Mary looked at me. I could tell she wasn’t impressed.

“If it hadn’t been for him, I would never have become a respectable young lady,” I said.

We were interrupted by a knock at the door. It was Samuel, and he was holding a tray. Samuel looked no more than eleven, with wide brown eyes and a gap where his front tooth should be. He reminded me greatly of my old playmate Jebediah Parker.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“This is a very important book, Samuel,” I explained.

“Is that the book about the murdering white whale?” he asked excitedly. “I heard about that book there. You know, I seen whales lots of times and once I think I even seen a sea monster with a—”

“No, Samuel. I’m afraid I’ve never heard of a book about a white whale. It can’t be very popular.”

His face fell.

“But this is a very interesting book. It’s on etiquette.”

“What’s etiquette?”

“It’s how to behave. You see, this book teaches you how to behave.”

Samuel eyed the book suspiciously. “That don’t sound interesting to me. You sure you don’t got no books on white whales?”

“What have ya got there, Samuel my boy?” Mary asked.

“Supper,” he announced, holding out the tray.

Mary got down off the bunk.

“What is it?” she asked, sniffing at it.

“Salted beef,” he said, warily eyeing the gray, gristly lump. He looked up at us and shrugged. “I think.”

“I know rotten horse when I see it,” Mary scoffed.

Samuel nodded. “I wouldn’t touch it. The first mate ate it and he’s been puking up for hours now.”

Mary snorted.

“And,” Samuel said ominously, “the rats got to the breadstuffs.”

“We are going to starve to death,” Mary said in a firm voice.

“You say the first mate is ill?” I asked, curious.

Samuel nodded. “Jehu’s puking up on deck right now. He looked green as an onion.” The boy was quite fond of Jehu Scudder, the first mate, and followed him around like a puppy.