The Indifference of Tumbleweed (37 page)

‘Hear what I have to say,' he muttered.

‘I am listening.' But in truth, much of my attention was elsewhere. I was wondering how I should dress myself for our final day on the trail, for one thing. For another, I was anxious about Fanny and her proclaimed plans. And then, as I did my best to concentrate on Henry, three of Lizzie's puppies came stumbling up to us, and I could not resist a prolonged fondling of them. Their fat little bodies were warm and soft, and their smell of babyhood and milky breath always sent me into transports of pleasure.

Henry took a pup for himself, and cradled it carelessly, tickling its ears and letting it nibble his fingers. ‘That one is most like Melchior,' I said. ‘Long legs and a greyer hue than the others.'

Everyone in the party had become fond of the litter, which greatly assisted Lizzie in her onerous task of keeping them safe, now they were banished from the wagon. Hope Gordon and her young son were forever stealing one or other away and carrying it between them as they walked. One of Henry's young sisters did the same. At five weeks old, the little dogs were good walkers and would follow along valiantly, encouraged by their mother and the various people. At night they were so exhausted, they could sleep anywhere.

Henry put the pup down again and reached a hand out to me. He placed it on my forearm, and I made no attempt to move it. I felt sure I was dreaming, while at the same time acutely aware of what he was going to say. There had been an oblique message in the way he babied the puppy, which I had at least partially understood.

‘I have become inordinately fond of you in the past months,' he said. ‘And I wish to make you a proposal of marriage. I expect to have adequate means, once I find myself a position. I have been thinking I might become a banker, if there are not already more than enough to meet the demand.'

I had instinctively found myself a seat on a rock which put me lower than him. But now I stood up, the better to respond to his offer. I had known for perhaps thirty seconds before he spoke that this would be his declaration. Prior to that, the idea had scarcely entered my head, and when it did, I waved it away as ridiculous. I had not seen Henry Bricewood as ever seriously aspiring to be husband to any girl alive. The man was a midget, unfit for ordinary society. His intellect alone would have rendered
him strange, but with his diminutive stature he was altogether freakish. Besides, he had voiced something of these facts himself over the months. He had plainly stated that he did not expect ever to marry. To propose to me now felt like a desperate final bid; a clutch at a straw that could surely not be sufficiently substantial to be taken seriously.

And yet he was probably correct in his assessment of his own prospects. He could readily conduct business behind a desk, calculating and negotiating over dollars and cents and being careful enough to ensure a goodly profit for himself. His wife would have a fine home and all the luxuries she could wish for.

I liked him, too. He was respectful and unthreatening. He carried himself with dignity and saw behind a person's prevarications. ‘Why me?' I blurted. ‘I have not the brain nor the good grace to fulfil your needs.'

‘You take me seriously,' he said simply.

That was true, up to a point. It also confronted my impression that he believed himself to be more respected than he truly was. I had never openly mocked him or made reference to his size, but it had always been part of my awareness of him. ‘That is not much,' I said.

‘It is a great deal.'

‘Henry…I am sincerely flattered -

He made a brushing gesture. ‘Don't say that. That's what women say before they turn a proposal down.'

I laughed, in spite of myself. ‘Is it?'

‘I believe so. Besides, you cannot possibly mean it. How can a proposal from me be flattering?'

I almost told him that I would be flattered by a proposal from
anyone.
‘It is something I had never thought of,' I said. ‘Until this moment I had not fully understood that I have always believed myself destined never to marry.'

‘Nonsense,' he dismissed. ‘No woman who comes on the Oregon trail can expect to remain unmarried. There are – what? – fifty men to every woman. Perhaps more.'

I thought of Fanny, with a heavy heart. ‘So says my sister,' I nodded.

‘Never mind your sister. What of you, Miss Charity Collins? Will you be my wife?'

I surveyed the unworthy objections that flitted through my mind. I would always stand four or five inches taller than he, so that as a couple we would attract smiles and jibes everywhere we went. Henry would require a physical connection, and children,
and I could not imagine reconciling myself to such a fate. If he became a banker, in a town, we might live in a fine town house with a lawn and flowers and tall trees at the back, where I had imagined something more rugged, with livestock to work with. I had found myself anticipating such chores as milking cows and tending newborn foals. I wanted to sow potatoes and beans, and stand on a windy vegetable plot surveying the results of my own labours.

‘I am too stunned to give you a quick reply,' I said. ‘Could you give me a day to consider?'

He sighed miserably. ‘If you insist, but you have already undermined what scanty hope I clung to.'

‘What did you expect me to say?' I was genuinely curious. ‘Did you believe me to be eagerly awaiting your declaration? Has this been a courtship in disguise, all these months?'

‘Not at all. At least, perhaps the idea blossomed gradually, and now the prospect of our separation shows me that I would miss you too severely to permit it to happen, if it can be avoided.'

‘Have you spoken to your parents about this?'

He shook his head.

‘What would they say – what
will
they say – when you tell them?'

He brightened. ‘I shall only tell them if you accept me. We can then confront them together, the decision firmly taken.'

My hesitation went all the way down to my bones. I had no clue as to what I ought to do. I had tried the test of envisaging a future with Henry, with inconclusive results. I delved inside myself for a scrap of understanding that could enlighten me, in vain. I took Henry's lead and thought of how I might feel if I never saw him again. Not a flicker of helpful emotion was to be found. ‘I seem to be numb with the surprise,' I said. ‘In no condition to make such a decision, in any case. Forgive me, Henry, but there is nothing I can say, one way or the other.'

He pouted childishly, which went a small way towards endearing him to me. The cool intellectual was also a boy at heart, lacking maturity and vulnerable to hurt. I supposed I might find a role as a shield for him, standing between him and the mocking world.

‘I promise to give you an answer by the end of tomorrow. We shall not separate until the decision is made for certain.' It felt impossibly reckless to make such a
promise. What, I asked myself in a panic, would have changed in the next twenty-four hours?

‘Forgive me,' he said, looking all forlorn. ‘I acted on impulse – not a thing I do as a rule.'

I smiled, perhaps a trifle patronisingly. It was a new experience for me to be faced with a supplicant, and the power was giddying. I began to understand why women made so much of the fact of a proposal in itself. Henry had not knelt at my feet, as men in stories often did, but he may as well have done. Whatever might come next in the shape of real life, married or not, this moment was beginning to taste sweet. I felt important and desirable. ‘You flatter me,' I said again. ‘And that is a good feeling.'

Then Lizzie was there, searching out her pups which had remained close to our feet. ‘What are you doing?' she asked us, aware of something in the air, but unsure of what it was.

‘Talking,' I said, and with a last smile at Henry, I helped gather up the babies and Lizzie and I returned to our tent.

13
^th
October

Today we finished our long journey. Five months and one week, traversing two thousand miles, without any violent loss of life or serious confrontations. The transition from constant movement to a stationary life will doubtless come easily to us, since we must build a home for ourselves and acquire stock. We have been speaking together of all the long miles that lie behind us, recounting tales of river crossings and huge herds of buffalo. We have a craving for green vegetables and fruit. Mr Franklin says his first act will be to plant an apple orchard. My father says he will establish a workshop for the production of harness, saddles and pony traps.

All the families in our party have their own plans. Mr Franklin is to establish a butchery business along with his orchard, making clumsy jokes about pork and apple sauce; Mr Bricewood favours horse breeding and livery as a good profession in this new country. All the men speak of the boundless opportunities open to us all, serving such a variety of needs entailed by a young city, just establishing itself. There is much thankfulness, on every side. We all feel quite blessed.

I had been aiming for a serious tone in this final entry to my journal, while avoiding too many generalisations. The insertion of the word
clumsy
was unkind, but true. The
mustachioed man had become impossibly trying with his repetitions and almost crazy excitement at having his ambitions within his grasp. The feeling of anticlimax that lurked on the fringes was not to be mentioned – especially as it appeared to afflict the women more than the men. I heard my mother speaking of the future in terms of much the same daily routines. ‘Feeding the family, mending their clothes, worrying about their future lives,' she complained to my father. ‘I cannot see that anything has really changed.'

‘Mending clothes!' he chided her. ‘Not a bit of it. There'll be a housemaid for that sort of thing, my lady. And a kitchen maid for the cooking.'

‘And where, pray, are we to find such helpmeets? The girls who have travelled with us are all too well born for such work. They will have enough to do amongst their own families until they find husbands.'

‘Then Nam shall do the cooking and Lizzie the mending,' he laughed. ‘While the older ones find themselves a husband, and sharp about it.' Then he frowned. ‘And would you call Ellie Fields “well born”? There are several like her, fit quite obviously for domestic service.'

Poor Ellie, I thought.

My own would-be husband had followed me all day with his eyes, as he walked beside his oxen and was teased by his small sisters. The final six miles into the Willamette Valley was accomplished in a morning, the pace uncomfortably brisk. There was singing and shouting, and a degree of hat throwing and other jollity. I swung between a range of thoughts and emotions. Partly I was irritated by Henry's interruption of what would otherwise have been a day of unalloyed celebration. Partly I was glad to have a distraction in the coming days, which threatened to be as mundane as my mother expected.

And then there was my sister Fanny.

Fanny alone would have occupied most of my thoughts, the way she was behaving. She danced along on carefree toes, laughing at nothing and swinging any small child she could grab up into the air. Henry's sisters and the smaller Franklins suffered the indignity without protest, glad to be included in the hilarity, but unsure as to its cause.

‘Whatever is the girl thinking?' wondered my mother.

I would have been sorely tempted to explain, if I had not had my own preoccupations. Fanny had obviously not spoken of her intentions to our parents, even in the vaguest terms. There was no sign of anxiety on their faces when they looked at
her. Quite what they believed to be the case between Fanny and Abel was unclear. There was little sign of disappointment, but neither did they ever refer to an eventual marriage. Something must have been said outside my hearing, that had soothed any worries and removed any hint of censure. Even after so much time, this continued to confuse me.

‘She is doubtless eager to start her new life,' I said, thereby only barely resisting temptation.

‘Has she spoken of it to you?' My mother seemed only faintly interested.

‘A little.'

‘I confess I cannot fully comprehend what she has in mind. A boudoir, she calls it, with all the latest East Coast fashions and comforts. She believes she can make a good living from it, and far be it from me or your father to prevent her.'

‘Mother! Have you
no
idea what it is she proposes?'

‘Some idea, Charity, yes.' There was a warning flash in her eyes. ‘And I wish her well. Your father says this is a land of opportunity, where every person should make the best they can of their talents. Fanny has always understood how best to please.'

My heart was pounding. I felt as if I was witnessing my parents throwing my sister to a den of ravenous lions. It was impossible that they had taken from Fanny's talk the same impressions that I had done. It could only be that it was I who was mistaken. And yet, I had witnessed something unambiguous and unforgettable, where they had not. ‘You have no fears for her immortal soul?' I said, my voice harsh.

‘Charity, Charity,' she sighed. ‘What a fool you can be at times. Such a conventional girl you are.'

A few months earlier, I would have said my mother was the most conventional person alive. Now it seemed I had got her wrong. She was flouting all the essential rules of parenthood, as was my father. The ground shook beneath my feet, as it had done where Fanny was concerned ever since Independence Rock. From some illogical need for security, I blurted out, ‘Well, I have had a proposal of marriage!'

Her interest was satisfactorily hooked. ‘From whom?' she demanded.

‘Henry Bricewood.'

‘When'

‘Yester eve.'

‘And what did you reply?'

‘I said I would consider, and tell him my reply today.'

‘And what will you tell him?'