A Most Unsuitable Match (3 page)

P
ROVERBS 17:17

Monday, May 17, 1869
St. Louis, Missouri

“We’re a full crew,” the grizzled roustabout said, and nearly knocked the carpetbag out of Samuel’s hand as he brushed past, headed for the waiting mountain of cargo. Samuel gazed toward the battered steamboat crowded against the St. Louis levee. The painted letters spelling out
Delores
had faded to the point that the name was barely legible. Peeling paint made the hurricane deck railing more gray than white, and the hull had obviously had more than one encounter with sandbars and snags. Just about every single steamboat taking on cargo today looked more promising than the
Delores
. And yet, Samuel knew she was piloted by Otto Busch, and no one knew the river better. Because of Busch, the
Delores
held the current record for ascending the Missouri to Fort Benton. Over two thousand miles in thirty-two days. Peeling paint didn’t matter. Samuel needed speed.

Another roustabout—an older, wiry man—hoisted a sack of flour and limped back Samuel’s way. “Heard you asking Isaac about work.” When Samuel looked down at him, the man’s pale blue eyes crinkled at the corners. “Isaac was right, as far as it goes. But I’m thinking any captain worth his salt would at least consider making an exception for someone your size.” He nodded toward the steamboat. “If you’ve got muscles underneath that black coat to match the looks of you, you might just want to talk to the man climbing down from the wheelhouse.”

Samuel nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

The old guy chuckled. “Don’t thank me, son. Cap’n Busch isn’t what you’d call an easy man to work for. Threatens to toss me in the river at least once a day. One of these days he’ll likely do it.” With a laugh and a grunt, the old man shifted the sack on his shoulder and got in line with the crew headed up the gangplank and on board.

As Samuel watched, the captain made his way from the wheelhouse, between the smokestacks, and then down to the hurricane deck. Taking a pipe from his coat pocket, he lit it, then leaned against the railing, puffing and watching his crew.

Samuel slid his hand into his pocket and touched the bit of paper he’d taken off Pa’s desk before leaving home. He didn’t want to use his father’s name. Not unless he had to.

As he stood thinking about the best way to convince Otto Busch to hire him, the kind old man who’d pointed the captain out reached the end of the gangplank, but when he went to step aboard the ship, he staggered and almost lost his balance. Samuel glanced back up toward the captain just in time to see Busch take his pipe out of his mouth and begin to yell at the old guy.

Somewhere between the words
worn-out
and an ugly reference to the man’s race, Samuel leaped across the narrow strip of water separating the steamer’s deck from the levee. Once on board, he hurried to the wide stairway leading to the hurricane deck above. In no time he was at the top of the stairs, staring at the broad back of the angry man threatening to toss the old guy in the river.

“I’m looking to earn passage upriver,” Samuel called to the captain’s back.

Busch didn’t even turn around, just said over his shoulder, “And I’m thinking that when you talked to him on the levee, Davis told you I have a full crew. Unless you’re proposing to take Davis’s place.”

Samuel crossed to stand beside the captain at the railing. “I don’t want to take anybody’s place, but I need to travel fast, and the
Delores
holds the record.”

Busch turned and looked Samuel up and down while he puffed on his pipe. Finally, he said, “Do I know you?”

“No, sir. My name’s Beck. Samuel Beck.” He held out his hand. Busch ignored it and turned away to watch his crew. “You know how many thousands of fresh-faced young fellas like you I’ve hauled north, their eyes blinded by visions of Montana gold? No idea what’s waiting for ’em. No idea how many more go ‘bust’ than ‘boom.’ No thought of the Blackfeet.” He swore softly. “Young fools.” He shook his head. “I’ve a full crew, and I’m hauling freight and
paying
passengers this trip. Period.”

“But I—”

Snatching his pipe out of his mouth, the captain let out a stream of epithets so vile they almost made Samuel wince. He followed Busch’s gaze to the levee, where Mr. Davis was bending over a sack he’d apparently just dropped. A flour sack, Samuel guessed, from the white powder scattering over the cobblestones. Busch pounded the railing. Spittle flew as he swore at the “dad-blasted, slack-jawed, stone-deaf son of a willy-walloo” who’d caused the mess.

Inspiration struck. Samuel set his carpetbag down and shrugged out of his long black coat. He thrust the coat at Busch to draw his attention away from the spilled flour. “I’d be obliged if you’d put this someplace safe. It’s my only coat. I hear the winters are fierce up north. Wouldn’t want to be without a coat.”

Busch threw the coat down and stomped on it, glaring at Samuel with such untainted animosity that Samuel’s iron will almost wavered. Almost, but not quite. Samuel launched himself back down the stairs, across the deck and gangplank, and to the wagon, where Davis was struggling to hoist another bag. “Here,” Samuel said, and took the bag on his own shoulder. “Give me another one.” When the old guy hesitated, Samuel nodded. “It’ll be all right. Just do it.”

With a fifty-pound sack on each shoulder, Samuel got in the line headed on board. Stacking his two bags in the hold, he again leaped across the narrow swath of muddy river separating ship from landing. Quickly, he got another roustabout to hoist two more bags onto his shoulders. When he finally dared to look up, the captain had put his pipe back in his mouth and was standing motionless, Samuel’s black coat folded over the railing next to him.

Samuel strode back on board, unloaded his second two flour sacks, and hurried up the stairs. Hoping he didn’t sound desperate, he said, “You can see how strong I am. I’ll work harder than anyone you’ve ever hired.”

The captain peered at him for a moment before saying, “I expect you think you’re worth more than the average.”

“All I want is fast passage up the river. Food enough to keep body and soul together would be nice.” Samuel lowered his voice and added, “And please don’t fire the old guy for dropping that flour sack.”

Busch arched one eyebrow. “How do you know Lamar Davis?”

“I don’t. But when he heard me asking about work earlier, he was kind enough to point you out. And he seemed a little worried about keeping his job.”

The pilot harrumphed. “How I treat Lamar Davis is none of your affair. But in case you’re sweet on the old boy, suffice it to say I promised someone a long time ago I’d keep the old coot on, and while I may be a foulmouthed, whiskey-loving, womanizing so-and-so, I am also a man of my word.” He handed Samuel his coat even as he groused, “I expect you
eat
twice as much as most men, too.”

“I’ll eat whatever’s offered, sir, and I won’t complain.”

Busch tilted his head. “You running from the law?”

Samuel shook his head. The captain’s eyes showed suspicion, but Samuel remained quiet, willing his hands to stay loose. Balled-up fists could be misinterpreted, and he had nothing to hide. At least not anything that would make Busch’s letting him earn passage north a problem.

After what seemed like an eternity, the captain thrust his lower jaw forward. “All right.” He punctuated his next words with pipe flourishes in the air. “But I don’t care if yer Goliath himself, if I find out you lied about the law, I’ll put you ashore in Indian Territory and not look back.”

He waved at a wagon just now pulling up to the landing. “Let’s see how fast you can unload that. There’s china teapots and perfume bottles and all manner of dainty whatnots in those crates. They’re promised to a customer in Sioux City who won’t take kindly to damaged goods. Drop one and you’re fired.”

“Yes, sir,” Samuel said, trying to keep the triumph from sounding in his voice as he grabbed coat and carpetbag and headed below.

“And don’t let Davis near those crates!” Busch shouted.

Samuel couldn’t help but smile as he saluted the captain and hurried to unload the wagon. He paused on the main deck long enough to tuck his coat and bag out of sight atop a tall stack of crates and to roll up his sleeves. He’d heard stories about Otto Busch, but none of them had prepared him for the man in the flesh. Lucky for Samuel he was used to being called names, used to being sworn at, and used to being threatened. For all the pilot’s blustering profanity, Samuel saw no evidence that he punished his employees with a blacksnake whip applied to shirtless backs.

This job would be easy compared to living with Pa.

“You can’t fool me, Fannie Rousseau,” Minette said, giving the swing a push. “You didn’t come next door two hours before dinner and drag me out to the garden just to hear the latest news about Daniel and me. Something’s happened. I can hear it in your voice. So . . . tell me what’s bothering you.”

When Minette held her hand out, palm up, Fannie grasped it. There was no use denying Minette’s intuition—or whatever it was that enabled the girl to see more than most of their sighted friends did when it came to people’s true feelings.

Minette squeezed her hand. “I gather it’s something you don’t want everyone to know, or you wouldn’t have led me to the swing behind the gazebo. So . . . unless someone’s lurking nearby who might overhear . . . tell me.”

Fannie glanced about them. “There’s no one,” she said, forcing a smile she hoped Minette would hear. “Unless we have to worry about Jake. But he’s asleep at the moment, curled up over there under the serviceberry tree. In fact, a white blossom just landed on his ear . . . and he flicked it off. And now,” she said with a chuckle, “he’s on his back, all four legs splayed in different directions.”

Minette giggled. “Not very dignified for a watchdog, is he?”

“Calling Jake a watchdog is like calling me an heiress.” Fannie gave a little squeeze and let go of her friend’s hand.

“Uh-oh.” Minette frowned and turned Fannie’s way.

It was unsettling to know those lovely hazel eyes couldn’t actually see what they were pointed at. “Uh-oh what?” Fannie shifted on the swing and then gave a little shove with one boot to get the two of them in motion.

“Uh-oh you’re considering not telling me everything.” Minette tugged on Fannie’s sleeve. “When you take away your hand, it removes one of the ways I read your mind. That’s not playing nice. How can I give good advice if you aren’t going to tell me everything?”

“I didn’t know they taught you mind reading at that school.”

Minette reached up to sweep her dark curls back off her shoulder as she tossed her head. “You know they didn’t. They did, however, teach me to be aware of tension. And when your fingers start to curl or your palms sweat, I know something’s up. So tell me what’s troubling you.”

“Besides everything, you mean?”

“Define the part of
everything
I don’t already know about.” Minette frowned and pretended to glare at Fannie as she said,
“Now.”

Fannie sighed. She began with the awkward moment when she put the rosebushes on her account at Haversham’s. “You’d think they were afraid they weren’t going to get paid!” She sighed. “But that’s only part of it. I don’t know when it all started, but the house is threatening to fall down around me. Peeling paint, weedy gardens, rusted gates. Hannah says Walker’s too old to keep up. She says I need to hire someone to help him. And the truth is, the grounds are only the beginning. Hannah isn’t really keeping up inside, either.” She leaned close and muttered, “Today I noticed cobwebs in the corners in Papa’s office.”

“Cobwebs?!” Minette gasped in mock horror. “Oh no! Whatever will you do? It’s a travesty! A tragedy of outrageous proportions!”

Fannie laughed in spite of herself. “All right, all right. Granted, cobwebs aren’t the end of the world. But they are a symbol of the general decline of all things Rousseau.” She recounted going through the pile of mail on Papa’s desk. “I looked up some of those shipping and business terms in the dictionary.”

“And?”

Fannie shrugged. “Problems. Serious ones. The thing is, knowing what the words mean doesn’t solve anything. I need to know what to
do
.” She rushed ahead before Minette could speak. “And before you say, ‘That’s why you have Mr. Vandekamp,’ I should tell you Mr. Vandekamp has been hinting at all of this for a while now. I just haven’t been paying attention, mostly because of the solution he’s suggesting.”

“Which is?”

“A certain eligible bachelor with the initials P.H.”

Minette frowned, then her arched eyebrows shot up. “You wouldn’t! You can’t!”

“I won’t.” Fannie sighed. “But all I seem to know lately is what I
don’t
want. I haven’t any idea what I do.” She glanced at Minette. “Why can’t I be more like you? You and Daniel have your future all planned out. I can’t seem to see past peeling paint and dirty windows. Mother never really pressured me about anything. She definitely didn’t encourage ambition. Then Papa died and we just . . . I don’t know. We just existed together, I guess. I couldn’t imagine leaving her alone, and then after her accident . . . and now . . .