The Lily of the West Page 3

  His military bearing crumbled, and he pulled me to his chest, the brass buttons of his uniform cold on my cheek. “I wish I didn’t have to, Miss . . . Kate.” I felt him take a deep breath. “He was so tired. He just lay down for a few minutes, and when I went to wake him . . .”

  My arms clutched his chest and seemed to stop the words, at least for a moment. It was all I could do. My father was my constant—a ship that plunged on, carrying me, carrying all of us, through every storm. The freedom I had flirted with, dreamed about, with the Marquis, with Ned, was always cocooned within the safety of knowing my father would always be there. Now the dream was a nightmare, and one I was ill prepared to live with.

  CHAPTER 3

  1867

  “Hop to it, Kate. Mr. Smith can’t wait all day for his breakfast, you lazy chit.”

  Mrs. Smith stood before me, her graying sausage curls framing her plump cheeks, eyes bright with malice as I struggled with the heavy tray. I wove around her voluminous skirts and up the servants’ stairs to the second floor. I took a backward glance at Wilhelmina, who sat at the table, eyes averted from my travails as she nibbled a piece of toast, and I nearly stumbled on my skirts.

  I entered the narrow hallway of the second floor and proceeded to the set of double doors that marked the bedroom of the master of this house, knocking with the edge of the burdened silver tray and pushing down the handle with my elbow.

  Otto Smith, Esquire, lay back on his down pillows, watching as I entered and set the tray on the table before the fireplace, cold now in the July heat.

  “Good morning, sir. Your breakfast, if you please.” I’d learned to say exactly this phrase very well, considering the consequences. I watched in disgust, face impassive, as he threw back the bed linens and strode forward, his nightgown flapping around his calves. Otto was not a stately man, nor an attractive one. Even the bed-gown did little to disguise the rolls of flesh that strained the edges of the cotton garment as he sat heavily in the armchair next to the table. Porcine eyes gazed at me above his pudgy cheeks, and the nightcap fell sideways to reveal the thin strands of graying hair that failed to cover his glistening scalp. I shuddered as his fingers trailed down my arm before they grasped a piece of bacon from the laden plate.

  “Looking at you always starts my day well, Kate.”

  I took a step back, my arms clasped behind me. It pained me to take this servant’s stance, but it was a good thing, because it stopped me from smacking his face as he stuffed it with food he scarcely needed.

  He stuffed a honey roll into his mouth as his eyes looked me up and down. I took another step backward. The man made my skin crawl.

  “If that’s all, sir, I’ll be needed downstairs.”

  He smiled. “You’re needed in many ways, Kate.” The sight of the honey roll in his mouth made my stomach churn. “But I concede your talents below stairs.” He smiled, pieces of the roll stuck in his teeth. “I’ll see you in the course of the day.”

  I made a hasty exit, shutting the door behind me. For a few moments I leaned back against it, before I returned to the kitchen below. God, how I hated this place. Of all the people in Davenport worthy of trust, we orphaned Haroneys had ended up with those who most betrayed it.

  My poor father had made what he thought was provision for us, in the event something happened to him. He’d enlisted the services of a lawyer, one Otto Smith, a distinguished citizen of Davenport, so all declared, and had written a will naming Mr. Smith as the guardian of his children until they reached the age of consent, depositing his modest fortune in the Iowa State Bank in trust of Mr. Smith. Since that dreadful day well over two years ago, Wilhelmina, Alexander, and I had become the wards of the Smiths, those scions of Davenport society. In truth, we’d become their servants, while the Smiths had made free with my father’s money. By the time I reached the age of eighteen, to say nothing of my poor sister and brother, there wouldn’t be a penny left. In the last twelve months, the Smiths had twice visited Chicago, bought a handsome carriage and four, and were building a new house with a view of the river. Every Sunday morning we attended the First Baptist Church in the company of Mr. and Mrs. Smith, who received blessings and praise for their Christian charity and compassion. In the eyes of Davenport society, the Smiths were saints. I had already learned that any complaints to the contrary were dismissed as the whining of a spoiled and willful child who was unused to any discipline. Wilhelmina and Alexander fared better, perhaps because their English was limited, but I had always found it difficult to contain my frustrations and disdain. Besides, now everyone knew me for an ungrateful girl with loose morals.

  Last October, Ned Hudginson and I had been apprehended by the sheriff of Scott County, Iowa, whose posse included Mr. Otto Smith, his Baptist faithful, and Mrs. Hudginson, not anxious to lose her dog of all work. We had been twenty miles outside of town, astride two horses and leading a pack mule, supplied with the meager tools to start a homestead. Our ill-prepared flight had been scuttled by my sister’s ill-timed confession, and we were returned to the grasping arms of god-fearing Davenport. Come spring, Ned absconded for parts unknown, while I remained, my reputation in ruins, a helpful if recalcitrant fixture of the forgiving Smith household.

  If there was a bright side to this, Wilhelmina and Alexander had become favorites of the Smiths, taking well to church and lessons, respectively, while I took on the role of scapegoat for all transgressions, real or imagined. They felt I had abandoned them, and I couldn’t deny that. I had been foolish, wild with the flush of first love, and had felt like a lost thing since my father had died. Now, I felt shame at being so quick to divest myself of my siblings, and guilt was the glue that kept me here.

  I sighed and made my way back to the kitchen. A longing for both my parents coursed through me, so sharp it was almost painful. A newfound respect for my mother had surfaced over the months she’d been gone. How loving my parents had been with us all and accepting of the responsibility of children in a world so unpredictable. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be like that.

  “There you are, finally,” Mrs. Smith said. She waved a piece of paper in my face. “Here. When you’re done with the dishes, get yourself to the market, then kill three chickens. We have guests tonight.”

  I took the grocery list from her, and she flounced out of the room without a backward glance, knowing I’d do what had to be done, as I always did.

  The face in the hall mirror was hardly the saucy one I’d grown to recognize most of my life. No hairdresser or shampoo had touched my strawberry blonde locks in some time, and my hair was now pulled back from my face and held with a strip of cloth. My green eyes stared back at me, and I gave the reflection a smile, arching one eyebrow. Not exactly court material anymore, Kate, the mirror seemed to say, and I had to agree, although there was something comely still, I thought. Not that anyone, even in Iowa, much noticed the kitchen help.

  I strode briskly down River Street to the market, basket in arm. I liked doing the shopping because it got me out of the house, and I could see what was going on in Davenport. My favorite place was the docks and the riverfront, maybe because it was the place where people left Iowa, something I longed to do. So much activity, so much life—barges, fishing trawlers, packet boats, steamboats, and the queens of the water, the huge paddle wheelers. Hundreds of barrels and crates were being loaded and unloaded, carried on strong shoulders, to be sold up and down the river, all the way to New Orleans, a place I dreamed about seeing one day. There was even a showboat, festooned with streamers, and I could hear music as I approached the mercantile. I’d love to see one of their performances, but the Smiths said it was “devil’s work” and stayed away.

  “Why, good morning, Miss Haroney,” smiled Jack Rafferty, elegant in a black embroidered waistcoat, lounging in front of his saloon. Somebody was playing Mozart on the piano, and it was the first time I’d heard it in Davenport. “A pretty day for a pretty girl.”

  I smiled back. “Morning to you, Mr. Rafferty.” I proba
bly shouldn’t, but I couldn’t help but like him. He was handsome and friendly, and even though the Smiths said he was a “gambling whoremonger,” he’d always been polite to me, and his greeting brightened my day.

  I entered the mercantile and handed my list to Mr. Benson, who nodded and began filling my basket. I drifted over to the doorway just as two ladies from the Baptist church came in.

  They glanced over at me, and one of them sniffed audibly. Within two seconds, their heads were close together, whispering, and I stepped outside, cheeks flaming. Would I ever be accepted in this town as anything other than a girl who was shamed? I wished at that moment that I had, at least, had the enjoyment of doing what they all thought I had and that I was as far away from here as possible.

  “Girl.” Another staunch Baptist, the man didn’t even have the courtesy that Jack Rafferty had shown, to call me by my name, which he knew full well. “Your order’s ready. Don’t dawdle; Mrs. Smith will be waiting. Get along now.”

  Basket full, I ambled back along River Street, enjoying the sunshine and the bustle of the waterfront. I loved the feel of the sun on my skin, and I rolled up my sleeves and smoothed back my wayward hair, basking in the warmth.

  “How you doin’, Miss Kate?” Molly, the fishwife, called. She had fresh catfish hanging from strings on her tent.

  “Mighty fine, Molly. How you?”

  “Gettin’ by.” She laughed and waved her apron. I waved back. I’d picked up the dialect of the river folk quickly, and it came almost naturally to me now. As I continued back down River Street, I waved hello and chatted with many of the vendors I’d come to know and count as friends.

  Just before my turnoff to the Smiths’ house, I saw two fine gentlemen dressed in the dark blue suits and shiny brass buttons of riverboat captains coming my way. I smiled at them as they passed, and they returned the favor along with quick bows. One stopped and looked back at me, but I paid him no mind. Men often did that to me in the street, but I’d learned to keep on walking. Ladies should pay no heed to such glances, especially ladies with a reputation as shredded as mine.

  Back at the Smiths’, I unloaded my purchases in the kitchen and made my way to the chicken coop, making short work of three plump hens, dowsing them in a pot of boiling water, cleaning, and plucking them. A year or two ago I never thought I’d have to cook dinner, much less kill it, but I’d learned. I opened the recipe book and started the long process of cooking chicken fricassee.

  Voices rose and fell from the front parlor as the Smiths entertained their guests. Wilhelmina had grudgingly been put into service. She delivered trays of appetizers full of deviled eggs, pickles, and olives that I’d arranged, as well as ice and glasses for the drinks, which, as could be gathered from the occasional burst of laughter, were being consumed at a fast pace. Baptists or no, the Smiths liked their whiskey just as well as their guests did.

  The dining room was set with lace tablecloths and napkins, china, and silver, and the chocolate cake I’d baked was sitting on the sideboard. Wilhelmina had taken the vegetables, bread, and butter to the table, and I was spooning the chicken fricassee into a serving tureen when Mrs. Smith appeared in the doorway.

  “Kate, wait until we’re all seated before you bring in the chicken. Then you can serve it to each person individually, like they do in Europe and those fancy places, not like you’d know.”

  She peered at me sharply. “You’ll be a sorry girl, if you splatter one drop, you hear me?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Tie back your hair, wash your hands, and wipe the sweat from your face. You look a slattern, but you’ll have to do.” She sighed and left the kitchen.

  Wilhelmina caught my eye, but even as strained as our relationship had been lately, we broke into laughter. “Europe and those fancy places? Oh, Kate, will we ever return to the place we belong?”

  At her last words, the laughter died, and I hugged her close. “Some day, Mina. Davenport is just a stop on the way, remember that.”

  She stepped back, her hands gently pushing strands of my hair away from my face. “I think about Mama and Papa every day, you know. I even think about the emperor. Life was so much nicer then, wasn’t it, Kate?”

  “Yes, Mina, it was.”

  From the dining room, I could hear chairs scraping. “Bring the ladles, sweetie. I’ll hold and you dip.”

  I picked up the heavy tureen, pushing open the swinging door with my backside. It was the brass buttons that first caught my eye, glinting in the light of the chandelier. To my surprise, the two riverboat captains I’d seen on River Street sat at the table, flanked by the Smiths and Mr. Smith’s associate, Denton Peterson, and his wife. They glanced up as we entered, and the distinguished older captain who’d turned to look at me in the street smiled, his eyes twinkling. Straight-faced, Wilhelmina and I made the rounds of the diners, filling their plates with chicken fricassee, the only thanks coming from the two gentlemen in blue. We retired to the kitchen to wait for a second round or the next order from Mrs. Smith, and from time to time I peeked through the slit between the door and the frame.

  Wilhelmina, Alexander, and I had eaten earlier, and a good thing, too. After a second serving, there was hardly a scrap of food left. Wilhelmina returned to the dining room to serve dessert, and I heard Mr. Smith introduce her and Alexander to the guests while I began washing the dishes.

  When the kitchen door opened, I nearly dropped the pot I was scrubbing, my hands deep in the soapy water. The older riverboat captain stood there, smiling.

  “Good evening, Miss Haroney. Thank you for a wonderful dinner.”

  “Ah . . . you’re very welcome, sir.” Mr. Smith stood behind him, scowling.

  “My name’s Joshua Fisher. I know you are busy, but perhaps you could take a moment and join us?”

  Smith’s scowl deepened, and I couldn’t let an opportunity to discomfit him pass me by. I wiped my hands on my apron and untied it, throwing it on the back of a chair. What could Captain Fisher possibly want with my company?

  I smiled. “Sir, I’d be delighted.”

  “So you see, Miss Haroney, I’m quite invested in seeing how you and your siblings are getting on here in Davenport. I regret it has taken me so long to do so.” The captain leaned back in his chair, his eyes staring into mine.

  I smiled politely, but my thoughts were whirling. Joshua Fisher had just expounded quite fully upon how he’d met my father and how that well-loved and wise personage had directed him to look in upon his children should anything untoward befall him in this foreign place. The Smiths looked as though they’d both sucked on lemons, and Captain Fisher raised his eyebrows quizzically.

  “Well, sir, let me say how delighted I am to know you knew my father,” I said, “and that you have had the happy circumstance to look in on us. I know he would be grateful, as we are.”

  I glanced towards the Smiths, both of whom smiled briefly before they went back to their lemons, Mrs. Smith glaring at me in warning. “As you can see, we are quite well here. Wilhelmina and Alexander are studying and doing well, and I am learning housewifely arts at Mrs. Smith’s kind direction.”

  Joshua Fisher gazed into my eyes for a few seconds and then turned to the Smiths.

  “You are to be commended, good people. I’m sure Mr. Haroney is resting easy.”

  He stood up abruptly and gestured to his young companion. “Come, Mr. Westerly. The hour grows late, and we must return to our berths. We leave at dawn, south to New Orleans.” He bowed and took Mrs. Smith’s hand, much to her simpering delight. “Such is the life of a riverman, I regret to say. Here one evening, gone the next. I’ll be sure to look in on you and the children when next we come upriver. Thank you for a lovely evening and a most wonderful meal.” He nodded at me at this, and I couldn’t help but feel pleased. I was turning into quite a good cook, if nothing else.

  He looked back at me as the company made their way towards the door, and I saw the concern in his eyes, but there was nothing to be said, especially w
ith the Smiths standing guard. I looked away and made my way back to the kitchen. There was a lot to be done before I went to my bed.

  By the time I finished cleaning the kitchen, I was a fire with determination. This was not the life my father would have wished for me, Wilhelmina, or Alexander, and I was the only one who could change it. Waiting would only make it harder— more condemnation, more drudgery, more spending by the Smiths—until there was no dignity or means left for us to begin anew.

  After putting all to rights in the dining room, I thought a great deal about all that had been said by the good captain. I sat outside on the back porch for hours after the others were in their beds and the house was quiet. I left a note for Wilhelmina, this time not putting it under her pillow but in her clothes drawer, where she’d find it in a day or two. I’d no desire for another inglorious return to Davenport, this time hailed as a thief.

  I crept through the deserted streets to the docks and had no trouble finding Captain Fisher’s Delta Queen, the most magnificent riverboat there. Her railings and superstructure gleamed in the ghostly light from lanterns hung from the decks, like an iced wedding cake only waiting for the party to begin. The gangplank was down, invitingly so. I watched from the shadows until the sailor on sentry duty strolled down to the tavern to refill his mug and then, my heart pounding in my chest, quickly ran aboard. Now all I had to do was remain undiscovered until we were far downriver.

  I sneezed and jerked awake from where I lay in the bottom of the lifeboat, my head touching the top of the moldy tarpaulin that covered my hiding place. I couldn’t see much in the dawn light seeping through the lacings I’d undone to creep into the boat, but I could hear the thunderous pounding of the paddle wheel that reverberated up through the deck. So we were away, down the Mississippi.

  My hands clutched tightly onto the carpetbag I’d stuffed with enough clothes to stop the clanking of a goodly portion of the Smiths’ sterling flatware and a pair of silver candlesticks I’d appropriated from the dining room in the dark of night. To my mind, it was only a small fraction of what they’d taken from us and I’d need it to start my new life. Just thinking about it, I smiled in satisfaction. Then I gasped, blinking owlishly as the canvas cover was flung back, exposing my hideaway.