Fairer than Morning (8 page)

“Will it please the company to be seated?” the captain said.

Chairs scraped against the deck. Allan Burbridge whispered, “Good evening,” and pulled her heavy oaken chair back for her. She seated herself as gracefully as possible; she was unaccustomed to having a man's assistance with the task. Rushville was not known for its society suppers and formal manners. But across the table, her father acquitted himself well in seating Louisa Burbridge, and a low buzz of conversation began.

Allan leaned toward her to speak quietly. “I'm glad they allow us to converse at meals on this boat.”

“You mean some do not?”

“I've traveled on several where the captain kept us silent as the grave.”

“Whatever for?”

“Excessive propriety.”

She smiled, her taut nerves untwisting themselves in the ambiance of his wry humor. He removed the lid of the dish between them and poked at its contents with a fork. “Would you care for congealed chicken? I suspect it was not congealed thirty minutes ago, but it has developed a fine aspic now.”

She inspected the chicken. The other passengers were deep in conversation, so she could speak freely if she kept her voice down. “It is rather gelatinous.” She smiled up at him.

“They serve a fine array of foods on board packet boats, but none of them remain hot.” He cut a chunk from the mass of chicken and placed it on her plate.

“Well, I imagine that would be a challenge with the limitations of a galley kitchen. We can't be too choosy.” The merriness of her own reply took her by surprise. She could not remember the last time she felt so light of heart.

“True.” He took his own portion of chicken and replaced the lid. “I admire your simple fortitude. It's refreshing.” His words were casual, but his sideward glance at her lingered long enough to tie her tongue.

His grandmother spoke up from across the table where she sat next to Louisa. “Allan, are you planning to monopolize the conversation of the lovely Miss Miller for the rest of the evening, or may we hear from her as well?”

“You may hear from her only while I pause to nourish myself.” He grinned and removed the lid of a tureen.

Amelia Holmes interrupted from her seat at Allan's left. “Mrs. Burbridge, I do so wish to hear about your city. You must know it very well.”

“Yes.” Amelia's mother brightened across the table. “Why—I have an idea! It would be so lovely to have your son show us the city for a day. I don't suppose you could spare the time, Mr. Burbridge?”

Allan paused. Perhaps he merely had to swallow a bite of chicken, for he sounded perfectly agreeable when he replied. “Of course, I would be delighted.”

“Oh, how kind of you!” Amelia sounded as pleased as if he had made the suggestion himself.

Mrs. Holmes echoed her daughter's sentiment and said without pausing, “Mrs. Burbridge, will you tell us about Fort Pitt during the war? It must have been so exciting to see the troops coming and going.”

But Mrs. Burbridge did not respond to Mrs. Holmes with her earlier enthusiasm on the subject of the war. “I grew up in Boston, Mrs. Holmes, and only moved to Pittsburgh upon marriage.” The old woman turned her attention back to Ann. “Tell me what you are reading these days, young lady.”

Ann was no more accustomed to discussing her reading with strangers than to having a handsome young man seat her at a dinner party. But at least she was an avid reader, in her few private moments on the farm, and she knew what the Burbridges would probably have read. “I greatly enjoyed
The Pioneers
.”

“Oh yes.” Mrs. Burbridge's wrinkled face came alive with interest, though her voice quavered with age. “Cooper is one of my favorites. Isn't it wonderful that the English love him as well? It's time an American wrote of our real life here.”

“Quite.” Ann's father leaned in, waxing enthusiastic. “And he writes so well of the natural beauties of our country. The English did read Brockden Brown also, but I'm afraid he didn't represent the best we have to offer.”

“I wholeheartedly agree with you, Mr. Miller,” Mrs. Burbridge said, watching Louisa pour tea into her teacup.

“Who is Brockden Brown?” Ann hoped she wasn't betraying some unforgivable ignorance.

“The author of a ghastly novel. It's quite right for you never to have heard of it.” Mrs. Burbridge pressed her lips together.

Ann's father nodded. He had strong opinions of what was and was not good literature. He had, in fact, strong opinions on a number of issues. Ann hoped he would not raise any of them here tonight.

“Mrs. Burbridge, I wonder if you've heard of the doings of William Ellery Channing in Boston.” He waved his fork at his plate, growing more animated by the moment.

At least if he had to choose something controversial, it was religion and not slavery. The Holmeses were busy chatting to the captain at the far end of the table, but Ann would not want her father to spark a debate at supper.

Mrs. Burbridge's eyes sparkled. “Indeed, Mr. Miller, I have heard about Channing. And I don't like it one bit.”

Ann thought she heard a groan from Allan, but it was so soft that she couldn't be sure. Mrs. Burbridge and Ann's father proceeded in a lively discussion of the dangers of Unitarianism, while poor Louisa sat silent between them.

Allan turned to Ann again, murmuring, “Your father has found a way to make himself very popular with my grandmother.”

“Well, she's endearing herself to him as well. He's usually quite reasonable, but Unitarianism is his pet hobby horse.” Ann smiled at Allan's chagrin.

“The only advantage that will come from this conversation,” he said as if consoling her, “is that she's sure to invite him— and you—to our home when we arrive in Pittsburgh, so they can continue railing against Channing. But I promise you that I will provide for you and your sisters a more diverting time. Pittsburgh is not Philadelphia, but we have social pleasures of our own.”

Ann didn't know how to reply—she did not think it was quite proper to discuss a visit to his home if a formal invitation had not been issued—but even as she hesitated, she heard Mrs. Burbridge inviting her father to call on them, just as Allan had predicted. She couldn't help but giggle and tried to hide it with a napkin in front of her face. Allan chuckled too, taking a sip of wine to hide his amusement. Ann's father squinted his eyes at her in mild suspicion but accepted Mrs. Burbridge's invitation.

“My parents would be delighted to meet you, were they in town,” Allan said. “They are admirers of simplicity and sincerity as much as I.”

She couldn't tell from the glint in his eye if he was flirtatious or in earnest, but her face warmed.

“Alas, they are gone to New York, so my father may produce more money and my mother may spend it.” His affectionate tone took any real sting out of his quip. “And what of your mother?” he asked. “Did she not wish to travel in winter?”

“She passed away nine years ago,” Ann said.

“Oh.” He stared at his plate. “I'm so sorry for your loss.”

On the few occasions when she had met young men since her mother died, this was always the way of things. When the subject of mothers came up and she had to tell them, they did not know what to say, making it even more awful.

“Tell me,” she said with forced cheer. “Do you plan to make a great name for yourself, as every young man dreams these days?”

“I don't know about that,” he said, smiling. “I'll probably assist my father in his business for some time. In his absence, I must supervise the daily operations of the firm. But I would like to invent something, perhaps. Something wonderful, like a steamboat.”

“It is quite wonderful.”

“Your sisters are taken with it. They are charming girls.”

“Thank you.” Try as she might, she could not summon the effervescence of their earlier exchange.

When the captain thanked his passengers for joining him and pushed back his chair, the company rose to leave.

“Let's go look at the stars,” Mabel said.

She and Susan had behaved so well at the meal, both quiet and polite. They should be rewarded. A brief walk on the deck under the stars could not hurt.

“I would gladly take you, Mabel,” Ann said. “But I left my cape behind in the cabin.”

“Suppose you go fetch it while I take the girls to the promenade.” Allan offered his hands to Susan and Mabel. “Louisa, would you like to join us?”

His sister agreed, and then the Holmeses expressed their enthusiasm for a stargazing party. All three families decided to go up together, with the exception of Mrs. Burbridge, who was not keen on the cold, and Ann's father, who said he was suffering from fatigue and would retire.

As the men helped the women and girls into their coats, Ann walked down the veranda to retrieve her cape, wrapping her arms around herself in a vain effort to stay warm in the clear, frosty night.

The light of her cabin's lamp revealed her dark fur cape lying atop the coverlet of the bed. She was grateful that her father had insisted they buy a more formal cape for her in Cincinnati. She would have felt out of place among the other women in her old woolen farm cape, practical or not.

When she lifted the fur and flung it over her shoulders, her matching fur bag tumbled to the floor by her feet.

She picked it up, loosening the drawstring. Inside were the letters she had saved these two years. She had brought them on the faint chance that she might be able to return them to their owner. They had come to her, after all, from the barrel sent by Jacob Good to her father, and now they would be staying with Jacob Good's neighbor. If she were ever to find the boy, this was her opportunity.

She withdrew one of the letters and unfolded it. It was the last of them, the one she loved most.

29th October 1817

My Darling Will,

I don't know if I shall be able to celebrate Christmas with you this year. The doctor tells me that I am worse, and your father is still too ill to converse. I do not give up the hope that God may bless us with a full recovery, in time.

In the event that it takes longer than I had hoped for us to see one another again, I wanted to share some reflections that have been constantly with me of late.

The first is that I love you and your brother deeply, and I pray that you will always remember that love, no matter where life may take you.

I also want you to be a strong and brave boy, and to do what is right, even when it is difficult. Take care of your brother. I know that you must live on different farms, but please make every effort to see him when you can. He is too young to remember, and you must help him.

Finally, do not be angry at God for our illness. He has His own ways and His providence is beyond our knowledge. The loss of your sisters was bitter to us, and we grieve them deeply, but they are beyond suffering now, as we all shall be some day. That is the promise in which I trust, and in which you must trust.

There are many more things I would write, but I tire too easily this month. I will write again as soon as I am able.

Your loving mother

In the wake of telling Allan that her mother was gone, the letter struck her as powerfully as it had the first time she read it. She wanted to meet this boy. She would understand him, and he her. She would tell him how she had saved the letters for him. He would not be uncomfortable or wordless. He had known the same loss she had known in that terrible year of 1817.

The deck was completely dark and empty when she emerged from her stateroom. She carefully made her way toward the stairs to the promenade. Below on the engine deck, hoots and shouts arose from card games. The hum of the boiler traveled through the deck and vibrated under her feet.

As she passed the midpoint of the ship, she walked closer to the railing, drawn toward the inky skies pricked by countless points of light. It would be a good night for stargazing.

A muffled thud rose from the engine deck where it stretched out to the side and below her. There, two men stood very close to one another in the gloom. She could barely make them out.

The first man pressed the second against the wall of the boiler room. He muttered something. The other man responded in an angry half whisper and broke away from the first man's hold, walking quickly toward the bow. As he passed under the lamp in the wall sconce, she saw with shock that it was her father. After a moment, the other man slunk in the opposite direction. The moonlight behind him traced the silhouette of his beaver hat.

Eight

W
ILL STOOD BETWEEN THE ARMS OF THE HANDCART
and pulled like a beast of burden, bracing his feet against the frozen ruts of the road. The cart would not budge. He did not know if he had grown weaker or the load heavier since he hauled it from the wharf yesterday. Two weeks had passed since he last hauled the oakum to the poorhouse, but the arrival of March had failed to ease February's bitter chill.