Boston Jane (18 page)

Handsome Jim grabbed me and hugged me hard, patting me all over, as if trying to reassure himself that I was really there.

“Boston Jane, you not
memelose
?” he asked, his eyes bright with unshed tears. I was a considerable mess and had no doubt that I looked like the walking dead.

I smiled wearily at him.

“You strong, Boston Jane,” Handsome Jim said, holding my hand tightly, gripping me like he thought I was going to disappear. Improper or not, I squeezed back.

“Or foolish,” I said, pushing my muddy wet hair out of my eyes.

“Perhaps a little foolish,” Mr. Swan conceded, standing before me. “But mostly brave.”

“But your canoe,” I faltered. “You loved it so.”

Mr. Swan hugged me hard, and when he released me his eyes were watery.

“We can always build another canoe,” he said huskily. “But we can never replace a girl like you, my dear.”

Handsome Jim turned to Mr. Swan and hissed, “I tell you chimney is no good!”

That night we were
back in Mr. Russell’s flea-ridden cabin.

Mr. Russell just shook his head when he saw me and spat a wad of tobacco.

“So yar back?” he asked.

“It appears that I am,” I said.

“Ya’ll be fixin’ supper then, eh?”

“I suppose I shall,” I said with resignation.

Mr. Swan had lost almost everything in the storm except his precious diary. But he was most melancholy over the loss of his canoe. And in the days following the storm, he took to drinking liquor to console himself and spent his nights guzzling whiskey with whatever men were in Mr. Russell’s cabin. I was reminded of the drunken men roaring on our doorstep on Walnut Street. Mr. Swan would soon have a cracked head like one of Papa’s patients if he kept it up.

After a week of this nonsense, I woke him up early one
morning and dragged him down to the beach. I hoped the bracing morning air would sober him up.

“Jane,” Mr. Swan moaned, his eyes bloodshot and bleary. “I won’t be able to get my oysters in.”

“Oysters?”

“Yes, the harvest is in a few weeks’ time.”

“I don’t understand.”

He stood and pointed to a shallow part of the bay. “There,” he said, but all I saw was the bay glinting in the sunlight, the water rippling like a canvas sail.

“Those are rich oyster beds. Precious as gold. Men think nothing of paying a silver dollar for a shucked oyster,” Mr. Swan said.

I knew that oysters were all the fashion in the States. Papa said there was nothing better this side of heaven than an oyster dipped in whiskey. Personally I found them revolting. They looked like dead slugs.

“Mine’s over yonder,” he said, pointing to an unremarkable patch of still water. “Toke helped me find it. But I can’t harvest a single one without my canoe.”

“Can’t you buy one of Chief Toke’s canoes?”

“It’ll take ages to send word to my banker in San Francisco. And quite honestly, my dear, I’m fair broke.”

I didn’t know what shocked me more, the fact that Mr. Swan was broke or the fact that he’d revealed his plight to me. Miss Hepplewhite always said that matters of finance should never be discussed between gentlemen and ladies. Furthermore, if Mr.
Swan was in bad financial straits, how was his family in Boston surviving? Who was supporting them?

“I’m ruined, Jane,” he said mournfully. “Ruined.”

It had taken some time, but Handsome Jim discovered my trunk buried in the rubble of Mr. Swan’s house. He dug it out from the mud and debris and dragged it back to Mr. Russell’s cabin. I greatly feared the contents, like Mr. Swan’s prospects, were ruined.

Sootie sat cross-legged at my feet. The little girl was terribly pleased that I had not been washed out to sea with Mr. Swan’s canoe. Apparently my adventure was the most exciting thing that had happened since the British arrived on the Bay.

“Open the trunk, Boston Jane!” she said excitedly. Her English was, as Mr. Swan had said, excellent.

“Let’s hope for the best,” I told the little girl, and opened the chest.

Sootie peered in and clapped her hands.

“All is good!” she declared.

She was correct. It appeared that all was in good order.

I rummaged through what was left of my trousseau. There was one warm quilt, a stray pillowcase, several tablecloths, a number of embroidered pocket-handkerchiefs, underclothes, the Bible that had belonged to my mother with the family dates written on the inside front flap, and my etiquette book,
The Young Lady’s Confidante
, which I couldn’t help but think was utterly useless out here. I barely resembled a proper young lady myself. My entire wardrobe had been reduced to the Chinook
skirt and calico blouse, and they were both in a very sad state. I desperately needed to obtain some fabric. Not to mention decent shoes. Handsome Jim had not been able to locate my shoes in the wreckage of the lodge. I could wear my wedding shoes in the meantime, but they were very delicate and would be quickly ruined in this muddy country.

I fingered the fine handkerchief with the embroidered violet and recalled the rush of pride I had felt at winning first place in embroidery at Miss Hepplewhite’s.

Sootie grabbed the handkerchief and wrapped it around her clam doll like a dress. “Can I have this?” She smiled up at me with hopeful eyes.

“You
may
have it,” I corrected her.

She squealed in delight and ran out of the tent, chattering to her doll.

I returned to my trunk and found my greatest surviving treasure, the one thing of value that hadn’t been bartered away.

My wedding dress.

Next to it was the small packet of green silk ribbons William had given me so many years ago. I took one and idly started to braid it into my hair.

Sootie appeared in the door, dragging a very reluctant-looking Suis. She seemed strangely subdued. She had no doubt heard of my experience in the river with the canoe and wished I had drowned.

“Boston Jane good?” she asked in a tentative voice.

“I’m well, thank you,” I said cautiously. Could it be that she felt bad that I had almost died?

Her eyes lingered on my ribbons.

“It’s a ribbon. Would you like me to braid one into your hair?” I asked.

Suis stared at it for a moment and then nodded, her eyes softening.

I went behind her and brushed out her long, thick hair. She sat very still. It didn’t take me long. When I’d finished, the ribbon looked like the first green spring shoot peeking out from dark, rich earth.

“Green suits you,” I said, meaning it.

She touched her hair self-consciously, a little smile on her lips.

Mr. Russell had a scrabbly mirror on the wall. I brought it over to the table and held it in front of her.

“Look,” I said, standing behind her to admire my handiwork. “You look beautiful.” Her eyes met mine, and she nodded.

She looked curiously over at my open trunk.

“That’s my trousseau,” I said. “What’s left of it.”

“What means trousseau?”

“Things the woman brings to a marriage.”

Suis nodded her head in understanding. “I bring three canoes to marriage. Slaves, too.”

“You have three canoes?” I was suddenly excited.

“Good canoes. Father and brother, they make them,” she said, examining herself in the mirror.

“Can you let Mr. Swan have one?” I asked. If Suis had a canoe, perhaps Mr. Swan could trade for one. Then his worries would be over!

Suis’s eyes narrowed. “He have trade for canoe, Swan?”

“No … no,” I said, my face falling.

“Maybe you have trade,” Suis said slowly, looking significantly at my trunk.

I shrugged.

Sootie clapped her hands excitedly, and Suis began to hunt through what was left of my things. She tossed aside the books but pulled out the pocket-handkerchiefs and pillowcase, tracing her finger over the embroidery. She set them aside and pulled out a white linen tablecloth. She had a good eye. It was the best one.

“For the table,” I explained. “To cover it.”

Suis rummaged further. Now she ruffled through delicate lacy underclothes, pulling out a beribboned pair of drawers, turning them this way and that, inspecting them. She held them up to me.

“What for, this? Hold baby?”

I flushed at the very thought. Really, trying to communicate with Indians was very embarrassing on occasion.

“You wear them,” I said, illustrating. “They’re underdrawers. For wearing
under
your clothes.”

“Like colset?”

“Exactly,” I said quickly, anxious to be finished with this discussion.

Suis nodded briskly.

Her mouth dropped open at what she pulled out next.

“This like skin of elk high in mountain,” she whispered, stroking it reverently. “This like snow.”

“It’s velvet.”

“
Velvet
,” she said, trying the word out on her tongue.

“It’s my wedding dress,” I said, wondering if I would ever get a chance to wear it.

“Wedding?”

“To get married in. To William,” I said.

An expression of excitement flitted across Suis’s face.

She clutched my dress to her chest. “I trade canoe for velvet.”

“You want my wedding dress?” I was aghast. “But you can’t—it’s for my wedding!”

Suis shook her head as if this did not concern her.

“Do you know how much work it took Mary and me to make that?”

“Much work to make canoe! Who Mary?” she challenged.

“My friend, and she’s dead!”

“Father dead,” she countered. “Brother, too!”

I looked at the beautiful confection, white and creamy as a rose, fit for a real bride. If my prayers were answered, Yelloh should be on his way back, with William, but I had to survive in the meantime. I had no funds left and I badly needed things, especially some new shoes and sturdy fabric for dresses. Miss Hepplewhite’s lesson on The Particulars of Domestic Economy (Chapter Fifteen) had been limited to advice on managing household money doled out by fathers or husbands. She had been rather remiss on the subject of actually
earning
it.

“Trade for canoe?” Suis demanded.

But how could I give up my wedding dress? The dress that had taken Mary and Mrs. Parker and me nearly two months to sew?
We had labored over every seam and stitch, endlessly discussed where to add each scallop of lace. It seemed that all my girlhood hopes and dreams were sewn up in that dress. To trade all that—for a canoe?

I looked at the growing pile of empty whiskey bottles in the corner and felt a sick sense of inevitability. Something had to be done about Mr. Swan before he pickled himself. If Mr. Swan had a canoe, he could harvest his oysters and lend me some money to tide me over until William arrived. And I grudgingly admitted to myself that I could make a new wedding dress, although it would never be half as beautiful as this one.

“Very well,” I said in a resigned voice. “You may have it.”

Suis looked down at the dress, smiling triumphantly. Then suddenly she looked up at me, a strange expression on her face, and fingered the ribbon in her hair. She petted the dress tenderly as if it were a kitten. After a long moment she put the wedding dress down and picked up the tablecloth.

“I trade canoe for table cover,” Suis said, not meeting my eyes.

I looked at her, startled.

“The tablecloth?”

“Tablecloth,” she said, her voice strident.

“But,” I said, hesitantly. “But it’s not worth a canoe. It’s not a good trade, I—”

“Tablecloth good trade,” she insisted, nodding. She smiled and pushed the wedding dress toward me. “Very best trade.”

“Thank you,” I whispered.

She nodded firmly. We looked at each other for a long, silent moment.

Then she snatched up the drawers with a giggle.

“Underdrawers, too?”

Mr. Swan was overcome when he discovered what my bartering had reaped.

“My dear girl,” he cried, hugging me tight. “However did you manage it? It must have been a great sacrifice.”

I thought of Suis’s formidable reputation as a trader and simply smiled. “That’s for me to know, Mr. Swan.”

“In any event it was a very kind thing, and I shall repay you, I promise,” he said, rubbing his watery eyes.

I nodded. It was very nice to see the old man smiling again. “Shall we go and see this canoe?”

Suis had arranged for Handsome Jim and some of the other young men to paddle the canoe to the beach. The canoe was truly something to behold. It was well over forty feet long and nearly six feet wide, considerably bigger than Mr. Swan’s old canoe. Mr. Swan gave a low whistle of approval. “That is a capital canoe!”

“It certainly should hold one or two oysters,” I conceded.

Brandywine barked at the men in the canoe, and they teased him by tossing bits of smoked salmon in his direction.

Mr. Swan grasped my hand. “Well, partner, welcome to the oyster business.”

“Partner?”

I looked at him in astonishment. Respectable young ladies
did not work outside the home. It simply wasn’t done. I couldn’t go into business. Could I?

“But—”

Mr. Swan shook his head firmly and gave my hand a hard shake.

“I’ve got the beds and you’ve got the boat,” he said with a broad smile. “We’re in business! Now, what are you going to name your canoe?”

Brandywine barked loudly.

I smiled. “The
Brandywine
, of course.”

Now that we had a canoe, we needed someone to transport the oysters to San Francisco.

“We’ll get M’Carty to help us,” Mr. Swan said.

M’Carty was a jovial fellow from Tennessee who had come to Shoalwater Bay around the same time as Mr. Russell. He lived farther up the bay and was one of the principal oystermen in the territory. He was responsible for purchasing the oysters of most of the pioneers and shipping them to San Francisco on the schooner he hired.

“I’ll buy your portion of the oysters and pay you same day,” M’Carty said.

“Capital, my good man,” Mr. Swan said, rubbing his hands together.

“We have to time the harvest with the arrival of the schooner. If our timing’s off, the cargo will spoil,” M’Carty said.