“Boston Jane,” she said, laying a gentle hand on my arm.
“It’s not that,” I said, swallowing hard. “It’s Jehu.”
“Jehu?”
I looked out the kitchen window. “I want to marry him.”
“But your father is dead. He doesn’t need money to trade with your father. You can get married tomorrow if you want. You are lucky!”
“That’s not it,” I said. “It’s not the Boston custom for the man to trade with a father to get a wife. If anything, it’s the opposite. The woman brings a dowry and—” I stopped myself, shaking my head. “That’s not it at all.”
“What is it, then?”
“Jehu hasn’t asked me to marry him.”
Spaark looked perplexed. “Then why don’t you ask him to marry you?”
I shook my head. “That just isn’t how it’s done.”
She nodded as if considering this problem. Then her eyes brightened. “Maybe you can still do it the Chinook way. It does not have to be your father, it can be someone who is like a father. Like Mr. Swan! You have Jehu pay Mr. Swan!”
“He’d just gamble it away!”
Spaark giggled. “Or spend it on Red Charley’s whiskey!”
We both laughed.
“I see your problem,” she said finally. “You must trust your friends. And your friends tell you not to worry. Jehu will marry you, Boston Jane.”
As I looked into her kind eyes, I couldn’t help thinking:
But I still want him to ask me!
In the end, I used the molasses Jehu had given me to make pies.
As usual we were to have a full house for supper. The evening’s menu included oyster soup, oyster tarts, fried oysters, and mashed potatoes, as well as my molasses pies cooling on the windowsill.
Oysters were a delicacy most places, but here on the bay they were a staple. We served them many different ways to keep them interesting—stewed, fried, broiled, fricasseed, deviled, curried, steamed, au gratin, pickled, as fritters, in pies, in omelets, in tarts, in soup, and sometimes as a sauce. But by far the most popular method of eating oysters was raw in whiskey, although Mrs. Frink made the men go to the taverns for that.
I personally hated oysters. They resembled fat slugs.
Even though the Frink Hotel catered to all manner of men, I worried that the sight of Hairy Bill would ruin the appetites of more than one of our guests. Not to mention, he wasn’t supposed to be on the bay to begin with. So I made a point of delivering a tray to Hairy Bill’s room before supper.
“Don’t worry, Miss Jane,” Hairy Bill said, as he happily dug into the food. “I got everything I want right here. Don’t see no reason to leave.”
That was, of course, what I was starting to fear.
William, I knew, would be attending supper, and despite my good intentions to the contrary, I took great pains with my appearance, selecting my best dress—a dress made of lovely gold silk that I had sewn myself from a pattern I recalled seeing in Philadelphia. It set off my red hair and suited me perfectly. What was it about him that made me want to prove myself again and again? After all this time, why did I care about his opinion?
Once downstairs, I left Mrs. Frink to greet the arriving guests and poked my head into the kitchen to check on the meal. As usual everything was running smoothly thanks to Spaark and Millie.
“Where’s Willard?” I asked, glancing around the kitchen. Willard was supposed to help Millie with the serving and clearing.
Spaark rolled her eyes.
“Haven’t seen him since this morning,” Millie admitted. “He disappeared after I told him to scrub out the milk urn.”
“That boy is useless.” I slipped on my apron and grabbed a tray of biscuits. “Well, it appears that I shall be helping you this evening, Millie.”
The guests were already seated and conversation filled the room. All the tables were jammed elbow to elbow. At one end of the head table sat Mr. and Mrs. Frink, Mr. Swan, the Hosmers, and Father Joseph, and at the other end, where I was to sit, were Mr. and Mrs. Biddle, Sally, and William. William had taken the seat next to Mr. Biddle, and the two men were looking very chummy. It was so strange to see them all together—it was almost as if Philadelphia had been transplanted to Shoalwater Bay!
Sally caught my eye and gave me a knowing look. It was clear who had arranged the seating. She was wearing a beautiful evening gown of icy silver, no doubt another of the very latest styles from Godey’s Lady’s Book. I suddenly felt like a scullery maid in my simple silk dress.
Mrs. Biddle sat opposite me, wearing a grand frock made of heavy brocade satin and a rather annoyed expression, as if she still weren’t quite sure how she had found herself there.
“It is a pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Biddle,” I said.
Mrs. Biddle merely fixed a scornful eye on my apron. “Do ladies not dress for supper here?”
William leaned over to Mrs. Biddle and smiled. “I assure you, Mrs. Biddle, that there are many here who are endeavoring to bring civilization to these wild shores.”
Mrs. Biddle gave an approving little nod and said, “I should hope so. Mr. and Mrs. Frink assured me that this was a respectable establishment. I should hate to have to take our business elsewhere!”
Millie, who was serving the soup, met my eyes and we shared a little smirk. Where exactly did she plan to take her business? Mr. Russell’s cabin?
“Oyster soup again?” Mrs. Biddle asked in a disagreeable voice. “I had oysters for supper last night, as well as for lunch today!”
“Oysters are our specialty, Mrs. Biddle,” I explained. “You might even say that they are the blood of this town.”
“Speaking of this town, I have an announcement to make,” William said, brandishing an official-looking letter. “I bring word from the territorial government that there are to be local elections.”
“Elections? What a marvelous idea!” Mrs. Frink said. She looked fetching in her soft brown dress, with her lovely hair pulled back in a simple knot. “For what positions?”
“For constable and justice of the peace, as well as for a representative to the legislature,” William said.
“Why we need such legalities is quite beyond me. We are doing very well managing our own affairs,” Mr. Swan said a little huffily.
Mrs. Frink rolled her eyes at this.
“I think it’s a fine idea to have elections,” I said. “Actually, you’d make a wonderful justice of the peace, Mr. Swan.”
“Me?” Mr. Swan said, brightening. “Hadn’t thought of it myself, but why not?”
“You would be the perfect choice, Mr. Swan,” Mrs. Frink said graciously. “I don’t know how Mr. Frink and I would have been able to build the hotel without your guidance in local matters.” She turned to the table and confided, “He was invaluable.”
“And Mr. Swan helped us with our claim,” Mrs. Hosmer said.
“Monsieur Swan helped secure a cask of fine wine for communion,” Father Joseph added.
Mr. Swan reddened under the praise. “I was happy to be of assistance.”
“Have you any experience in governing?” Mr. Biddle asked.
“Not exactly,” Mr. Swan stuttered. “But I have served as judge in this part of the territory in an … ahem … unofficial capacity.”
Mr. Biddle looked unimpressed. “Speaking of letters, did you say your name was Swan?”
Mr. Swan drew himself up proudly. “James G. Swan, at your service, sir.”
“Humph,” Mr. Biddle said, and fished in the pocket of his dinner jacket, extracting a thin letter. “The captain of a passing ship from Boston gave this to me to give to you.” He held out the letter.
The letter was addressed to “James G. Swan, at Shoalwater Bay” in a feminine hand, the script cursive and flowing. Mr. Swan looked at the letter for a long moment and then reluctantly took it, his hand shaking slightly.
“Thank you,” Mr. Swan said formally, and secreted the letter into his coat pocket.
“Who do you suppose shall ru
n for constable?” Father Joseph asked.
Mr. Frink, who was normally quiet, chuckled. “Wouldn’t be a speck of disorder if Jane was in charge of things round these parts!”
Mrs. Biddle looked appalled. “You are most certainly joking, sir.”
“Our Jane here’s a fine shot with a rifle,” he said. “Apprehended a thief not too long ago.”
Mrs. Hosmer turned to me, a nervous look on her face. “You’re not serious, are you, Miss Peck? About becoming the constable? That sounds terribly dangerous.”
I leaned over and whispered in her ear. “I assure you I have no ambition to be constable. But Mr. Frink is right. I am a good shot.”
“Perhaps M’Carty could be constable?” Mr. Swan suggested. “After Mr. Russell, he knows the territory best and has been here the longest.”
“He’s married to that old chief’s daughter,” William commented, his voice thick with disapproval.
“Cocumb is a lovely lady,” I said.
“She may be a lovely woman, but she is hardly a lady,” William said. “She’s a savage.”
“I’ll thank you not to insult my friend like that,” I said between gritted teeth.
“Perhaps she is the exception that proves the rule, but I shouldn’t like anyone who is our constable to be married to a savage,” he said.
All talk at the table had ceased, and nine pairs of curious eyes regarded William and me.
Mr. Swan said hastily, “Ahem, so tell me, William, what brings you back to the bay? And is there money in it?” He laughed, a little too loudly.
William took a long sip of water, his blond hair glowing in the light of the candles. “I am surveying land,” he said in a cool voice. “Apparently a number of fraudulent claims have been filed.”
His eyes met mine across the table for a long moment, and I suddenly remembered the blond figure walking across my claim the day Sally had arrived.
William gave a cold little smile, and a shiver of unease ran through me.
I excused myself to check on progress in the kitchen. Millie was already loading her tray with bowls of mashed potatoes and platters of fried oysters.
“I tell you one thing,” Millie said, all business now, snatching up a tray of chicken, “I am going to torture young Willard if he doesn’t turn up in time to scrub the dishes.”
“Why don’t you take that out and I’ll check his regular haunts,” I said.
I opened the back door of the kitchen and looked around.
“Willard!” I called.
There was a rush of movement and a loud clatter, the sound of barrels being knocked over. Someone cursed. The voice was too deep to be Willard’s.
I peered into the darkness.
Two figures hovered over barrels containing various supplies that had been delivered by a late-arriving schooner that afternoon. I had neglected to have Mr. Frink move them into the storage room.
“Excuse me,” I called. “May I help you?”
The men stumbled forward. I could smell the whiskey on their breath from where I stood.
One wore a red cap and was so tall and skinny that he resembled a scarecrow. The other fellow had a shiny gold front tooth and a bald head. I didn’t recognize either one of them. They were, no doubt, recent arrivals, and of very poor character as well.
They stared at me with their beady, red-rimmed eyes for a long moment and then stumbled off into the darkness.
“How peculiar,” I said to myself.
When I returned to my table, the topic of conversation had changed.
“So, William,” Mr. Biddle was saying, “I liked the plot of land you showed me yesterday, but what about the other land you wrote me of? There were several locations that sounded promising.”
So my instincts had been correct, after all! William had written to Mr. Biddle.
“Of course,” William said. “I thought we would survey that tomorrow.”
“What piece of land did you show Mr. Biddle?” I asked.
William’s eyes slid to mine. “Near the Chinook village. It is very well situated as a portage for timber.”
“Near savages?” Mrs. Biddle gasped. “There are tepee villages nearby?” Her voice rose an octave. “I thought you said this area was perfectly safe!”
“Now, my dear,” Mr. Biddle began.
“Savages!” Mrs. Biddle said again, and then whipped out her fan, waving frantically, patting her chest. “They’ll kill us. And eat us. I’ve read the news reports! I know what horrible animals they are!”
“Mrs. Biddle,” I said with a light laugh. “They’re nothing of the sort—”
William interrupted me as if I hadn’t even spoken. “I assure you, Mr. and Mrs. Biddle, that it is only a temporary concern. It is the stated intention of Governor Stevens to move these Indians to a reservation.”
Always in the past, William had been one to foment poor relations with the Chinooks. And always in the past, he had failed to persuade anyone in our small community of his wisdom in this matter. I felt confident any new attempt would fail as well. That is, until Mr. Biddle turned to William and said, “That seems a very sensible idea, William.”
“It isn’t a sensible idea at all, Mr. Biddle,” I said.
Mr. Biddle looked at me sharply.
Father Joseph echoed my sentiment. “This is their home.”
To my surprise, it was Mr. Hosmer who said, “But, Father, how can you hope to civilize these poor souls if they are permitted to continue in their wild ways?”
Before Father Joseph could answer, I leaped in. “Please believe me when I say that the Chinooks who live here are the finest neighbors one could hope for.”
“You give your opinions very freely, young lady.” Mr. Biddle made a decidedly disapproving sort of noise. “You forget yourself.”
I blinked as if slapped.
Now, it is true that back east it was considered very poor manners for young ladies, or any ladies for that matter, to discuss politics with men. But I had learned that many of the habits that ladies kept back east were of little use here on the frontier.
There was a long moment of silence at the table.
William wore a smug, superior look. Sally looked as if she rather wanted to burst into laughter, and the Hosmers seemed genuinely embarrassed by my behavior. But it was the expression on Mrs. Frink’s face that gave me courage. Mrs. Frink was most certainly a lady who spoke her mind. She gave me a small, encouraging smile and I took a deep breath.
“Well, Mr. Biddle,” I began in a civil tone. “We have lived quite agreeably with the Chinook for several years. Why, Mr. Swan is a longtime resident of Shoalwater Bay, and I’m quite sure he can, as a gentleman, second my opinion.”
Mr. Swan looked momentarily flustered and then said in a loud voice, “Miss Peck is quite right. We enjoy a good relationship with the Chinook. In truth, we owe much of our prosperity to their continued friendship.”
“All this talk of savages is making me rather faint,” Mrs. Biddle said in a soft, protesting voice to her husband.
Mr. Biddle shot me a look, as if I were at fault for his wife’s weak constitution. I wanted to tell him that she wouldn’t faint if she ate something!
I stood up abruptly, clearing the plates for dessert.
Back in the kitchen, Millie said, “That was some conversation you were having over there.”
“You give your opinions very freely,” I mimicked as I angrily sliced the molasses pies onto plates.
Millie’s eyes sparkled. “Maybe your pie will sweeten their tempers.” She started to pile the plates on her tray. “I’ll take care of the rest of the room if you get the head table.”
I doubted very much that anything as simple as a pie would sweeten Mrs. Biddle’s temperament, or that of her husband. But Millie was correct about my pies. The dark, rich inside did look delicious.
I sliced the last remaining two pies, added a generous spoonful of fresh cream to each plate, and returned with my tray to the dining room.
 
; Mrs. Frink stood up and announced to the room, “You are all in for a treat. Jane has baked us her famous pies!”
The room burst into applause and the men hooted.
“Why else do ya think we come here?” one man shouted back playfully.
I blushed and sat down.
“Your pie looks lovely, as usual, my dear,” Mr. Swan said, and then took a hearty bite.
Around the room the guests were digging into their slices, and I tucked into my own piece. But no sooner had the pie hit my tongue than I knew something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
Mrs. Frink’s eyes met mine helplessly, and she brought her napkin up to her mouth.
Mr. Swan was valiantly trying to swallow his bite, and William had started to cough. Sally looked absolutely pained, and Mr. Biddle hastily drained his glass of water.
But it was Mrs. Biddle, ever the lady, who unceremoniously spat out her mouthful onto her handkerchief. “It tastes like—like—” she sputtered, her lips pasted with crumbs.
I spit out my own mouthful and studied the rich, brown filling. Was that a piece of a worm?
“Like—like—”
“Mud,” I finished.
“Mud!” Mrs. Biddle shrieked.
And then toppled to the floor in a dead faint.
CHAPTER SEVEN
or,
Stolen Goods
We discovered the culprit the next morning.
Willard was curled up in a tangle of sheets, moaning in agony from a terrible stomachache. He had eaten the rich molasses filling out of two of the pies and then cleverly replaced the molasses with mud, thinking no one would be the wiser. Brandywine had apparently participated in the crime and lay nestled next to Willard in the linen closet, where they had spent the night hiding. Millie had discovered them when she went to fetch fresh sheets.
“Will you look at the thieving bandits,” Millie declared.
“Willard Woodley!” I said sternly.
“I’m sorry, Miss Jane,” Willard said, clutching his stomach.
Brandywine whimpered piteously.
“Willard, you are more trouble than you are worth!”
He shook his head mournfully and blinked up at me, his face pale. He looked very much as if he were about to be sick all over the clean linen. “My belly hurts bad, Miss Jane!”