Louisa Rawlings (7 page)

“Now, now, Edward!” said Mrs. Marshall in a hearty voice. “Have you forgotten so soon that this is to be our great adventure? All the hours that you and Lewis and I spent in planning? Think of it! The forest primeval. The sacred wilderness!” Her eyes began to glow with religious fervor. “Treading paths hitherto trodden only by our noble red brethren. To return to Nature is to return to God!”

Tarnation! thought Marcy. She
will
want praying on Sundays.

Collins smiled ruefully and rubbed his chin. “Our ‘adventure’ seemed more exciting in a gaslit drawing room than after two days in a dingy railroad car and a bumpy stagecoach! But…”

“Come, come, my lad,” said Dr. Marshall. “Haven’t you been longing to see the ring lichen in its native habitat? Even an amateur botanist must venture into the field once in a while. Why, I remember once in ’68, with some of my students…”

Mrs. Marshall cut in sharply. “There’ll be time for that later, Lewis!” She turned to Marcy’s uncle. “Old Jack. I understand that you and my husband have made all the arrangements. Will you please assign us to our guides and boats?”

“My pleasure, ma’am. There are five boats. You and Dr. Marshall are with Amos in the first one. Most often we ride two to a boat, one guide for one sportsman. But the doctor wished for you to be together.”

Dr. Marshall looked concerned. “I knew the task of paddling a boat would be too strenuous for your delicate constitution, my love.”

“Quite so.”

Marcy nearly laughed aloud as Mrs. Marshall attempted a delicate expression. She looked away, flustered, when she saw that the man Drew was grinning too, sharing the silent joke with her.

“Young Tom, here”—Old Jack indicated the Sabattis boy—“is to go with that gentleman there.”

“That’s Mr. William Stafford,” said Mrs. Marshall.

The dashing buccaneer has an ordinary name, thought Marcy, as Stafford handed his surveying instruments to Tom and pointed to a valise and knapsack on the small beach, which Tom immediately began to stow in one of the boats.

Old Jack beckoned to another guide. “Alonzo will take that tall feller there.”

“Drew’s my name.”

“
Mr
. Bradford,” corrected Mrs. Marshall primly. “We don’t want too much familiarity, Drewry. Do we?”

Drew’s eyes twinkled wickedly, but his smile was as innocent as the day. “Why not, Mrs. Marshall? You and I met only three days ago, and I asked you to call me Drew soon as we shook hands. Now Alonzo here will practically be…so to speak…my bed partner for the next two months. Why can’t he call me Drew?”

Mrs. Marshall looked scandalized. “Mr. Bradford!”

He hastened to appear contrite. “My dear Mrs. Marshall. It was only a figure of speech, I assure you. But you do see my point…”

She adjusted the pince-nez on her nose, tugged at the buff ribbon that held the glasses around her neck. Then she tilted back her head and peered coldly at Drew. “You may be as democratic as you wish, of course, Mr. Bradford. But you’ll reap the consequences.”

“I quite understand, Mrs. Marshall,” he said solemnly. “I shall endeavor to avoid being overfriendly with the guides.” His expression still serious, he deliberately winked at Marcy.

Tarnation! thought Marcy, feeling her face burning again. If that long-eared devil doesn’t stop making me blush…

“Humph!,” said Mrs. Marshall, indignantly turning her back on Drew.

“Old Jack,” said Dr. Marshall quickly, “you haven’t finished assigning the guides.”

“Yes, sir.” Old Jack indicated the first man who had come down the path. “That’s Mr. Heyson, isn’t it?"

Stuck-up Mr. Heyson, thought Marcy.

“You said he collects rocks,” continued Old Jack. “I thought Jerry there would be just about right for Mr. Heyson. He’s a strong ’un.”

Jerry stepped forward, a strapping lad of eighteen, and grinned at George Heyson. There was a gap where his front teeth should have been. “I can carry any pack you can load up, Mr. Heyson, sir!” He flexed his arms to show the bulging muscles of his biceps.

Heyson eyed him critically. “Just don’t chatter away,” he said in a voice as colorless as his face. “I don’t enjoy unnecessary talk. And I expect a day’s work from you.” He frowned at a large pebble on the beach, then scooped it up to examine it more closely.

“It sure is getting warm.” Ed Collins pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed at his forehead. “I guess that leaves me with you, Old Jack.”

“And Marcy.”

George Heyson turned indignantly to Dr. Marshall. “Lewis. Is that girl coming with us?”

Dr. Marshall cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. I haven’t had the opportunity to speak to all of you. The girl is Marcy Tompkins, Old Jack’s niece. He asked me about her yesterday. I didn’t think any of you would mind.” He turned to his wife. “She’ll be good company for you, my love.”

“Yes…perhaps.” Mrs. Marshall’s disapproving eyes traveled over Marcy’s shirt and trousers. “Is that what you intend to wear, girl?”

“It’s what I’m comfortable in, ma’am,” Marcy answered. “But I did pack a skirt for Sundays,” she added quickly.

“Well…”

Drew Bradford pulled off his hat and ran his fingers through his black hair. “I hate to be crass, Dr. Marshall, but is the girl hiring on? And if so…who’s to pay for it?” He looked at Marcy and shrugged apologetically. “Sorry, honey. But by my reckoning, I’ll be lucky to have a ten-dollar greenback in my vest pocket at the end of the summer. And glad I already have my ticket home.”

Marcy’s heart felt as if it had dropped into the pit of her stomach. He was obviously poorer than she had imagined. A man like that wouldn’t want the burden of a wife.

“Don’t fret, Drewry,” said Dr. Marshall kindly. “Old Jack said she’s skilled at roughing it, but we both agreed that the going rate of two fifty a day was a little steep for a female. We settled on a dollar fifty a day, plus her weekly board of two dollars for supplies. And her meal vouchers if we stop at any hotels or boardinghouses along the chain. And I don’t see why we can’t divide the cost among ourselves—it doesn’t amount to that much per man. What do you say?”

Drew shook his head. “I don’t know. I make that out to be fifteen, twenty dollars—at the very least—for every man. I just don’t have that kind of money with me.”

“See here, Bradford. I’ll pay your share.” William Stafford fished a cigar out of his breast pocket and bit off the tip. He struck a match against the sole of one fine leather boot and took several deep puffs of his cigar. The smoke that drifted in Marcy’s direction was rich and aromatic.

She thought, Whatever the buccaneer does for a living, he must do it well.

“Well, Bradford? You can pay me back whenever you’re able. I’d quite understand.” For a moment Stafford’s eyes focused on Drew’s paint-spattered boots; then he smiled at the other man and exhaled a stream of blue smoke.

“I can forward you the money as soon as I return to New York City,” said Drew softly. “I’m obliged to you, sir.”

Stafford allowed his gaze to travel the length of Marcy’s lush form. “I’m not sure I’m doing it for you, sir.”

Drew smiled disarmingly. “I’m not sure that’s a gentlemanly thing to say, sir.”

Marcy bit her lip. In a strange way, they seemed to be engaged in some sort of battle, though neither man had stopped smiling. And she seemed to be a part of it. It was frightening and exciting all at the same time. And brand-new. Zeb was a boy. These were men—strange and unfamiliar to her. She felt a moment’s panic.

She thought, Am I getting in over my head?

“Well, I don’t like it.” George Heyson’s fingers played with the rock he still held. “A female doesn’t belong on a jaunt like this!”

“I beg your pardon, George!” Mrs. Marshall’s face began to turn red.

“Cynthia…I…I didn’t mean…you’re not…”

“Not what, George? Not female?” Mrs. Marshall’s voice was growing shrill. “In all the years you’ve known Lewis and me, I’ve never heard you say a crueler thing.”

The fingers had now become quite agitated. Marcy thought the rock would fly out of Heyson’s hand.

“That’s not what I meant at all. Not at all,” he stammered. “I just don’t see what a young chit like that can contribute to the seriousness of our expedition.”

Old Jack stepped forward. “She’s a good hunter, Mr. Heyson. She’ll more than earn her keep in game. You won’t regret it.”

“I don’t like it, Lewis. We don’t need her.”

“I don’t see why Miss Tompkins can’t come along,” said Drew.

Old Jack turned to Mrs. Marshall. “I appeal to you, ma’am,” he said mournfully. “The girl had her heart set on going. My poor dead brother’s only child…orphaned and alone in the world, with no one but me. To be at the mercy of strangers while I’m away…”

Tarnation! thought Marcy. What’s Uncle Jack trying to do? She’d begged him to do what he could to arrange things, but she didn’t expect he’d start pouring out all that hogwash! He sounded like the actors in the melodrama she’d seen last year down at North Creek.

And all because that high-nosed Mr. Heyson didn’t think that females could do anything.

“Oh, balderdash!” she cried. Marching to the rifles lined up on the beach, she snatched up her own weapon and slammed a cartridge into the breech. She whirled angrily to the men.

“Toss up that rock, Mr. Heyson.”

George Heyson looked shocked, his eyes widening at the sight of the rifle barrel pointing in his direction. “Now just a minute, young woman…”

“Go it, Marcy!” Laughing, Drew strode to Heyson, pulled the stone from his limp fingers, and flung it high in the air. Marcy swung the rifle to her shoulder, sighting and squeezing the trigger simultaneously. There was a loud crack, and the rock shattered into a thousand pieces.

“Well done!” said Stafford. “I for one think we can use you on this jaunt.” By the look in his eye, Marcy wasn’t quite sure what he meant.

“I agree,” said Mrs. Marshall, taking charge once more. “But I trust you will all remember you are gentlemen. And while Marcy scarcely has the refinements of young ladies of our class, she is, nevertheless, a member of the fairer sex, and as such merits the proper behavior you would all show toward your own mothers and sweethearts.” She turned to Collins. “Now, Edward. Are you agreeable that the girl and her uncle should ride with you?”

Collins looked petulant. “I don’t fancy having a girl show me up every time we go out for deer. And if there’s some hard paddling to be done, I’d just as soon not have the extra weight in the boat.”

“I’ll switch places with you. You can have Alonzo.” Drew’s voice was a humorous drawl. “I’d be delighted to have Marcy do my shooting for me. And if she can spell me at the oars now and again, so much the better!”

Mrs. Marshall sniffed her disapproval. “That’s not a very manly view.”

Drew scratched his ear. “No, ma’am, it’s not.”

Impatiently, Old Jack picked up a large knapsack from the beach and tossed it over one shoulder. “If we don’t pack up right soon, we’ll lose the daylight long before we reach Clear Pond!” While the sportsmen watched and supervised, the guides began to load their boats. Each man had a carpetbag or a soft leather valise, loaded with his clothing and blankets. The hunting and fishing gear—fly-rods and creels and ammunition—packed into knapsacks, was stowed in the flat-bottomed boats. Their provisions and cooking utensils were carried in ash-splint baskets, some two by three feet, which could easily be strapped to a man’s back for the carries between lakes. The Abenaki Indians were skilled in the weaving of these baskets; often Marcy had sat with Tom Sabattis’s kin while they twined the supple splints and told stories of the old times and the old ways.

His mouth pinched tight in disapproval, George Heyson insisted that Jack repack his gear, while Mrs. Marshall flapped about like a large hen in the barnyard, her net veil fluttering, worried that she had not brought enough warm clothing. Ed Collins had already removed his top hat and frock coat, and was now pacing the dock and complaining about the heat while he mopped the inside of his hatband with a handkerchief.

Only Drewry, his hat and coat thrown aside, worked alongside Marcy and Old Jack, carrying his own rifle and carpetbag down to the boat and returning for his painting supplies—a worn satchel filled with rolled-up canvas, sketch pads, a paint box, and a handful of brushes and pencils tied up with string.

Marcy stooped and reached for the straps of the provision basket, grunting as she lifted it, and swung it onto her back. Fresh-stocked for the journey with coffee, tea, flour, and other staples, as well as pots and plates, the basket weighed almost seventy pounds. But she was strong and had carried heavier loads.

“Here. I’ll take that. You take my painting gear.” Drew bent down, his blue eyes warm with concern.

Marcy felt her body go hot just from the look in his eyes. Dang him! she thought. She was angry—angry at him for looking the way he did, angry at herself for allowing him to have such an effect on her.

“Bosh!” she snapped, adjusting the basket and standing up. “I can carry this old thing!”

He shook his head. “I said it before, and I reckon it’s so. You
are
a stubborn filly!”

Stung, she turned away and made for Uncle Jack’s boat, trying to move as though the basket were as light as a feather. It was heavier than she had imagined; she nearly tripped as she reached the boat. Drew had followed her; without a word he pulled the basket from her back and dropped it onto the beach. She felt angrier than ever, thinking he might be laughing at her.