“Mama and I used to write our correspondence together once a week. She always said a proper girl ought to have beautiful penmanship. I practiced by writing letters to Annabelle Smith, and she’d write to me. We exchanged them at school.”
It’s another rotten lie, mostly, on a whole heap of rotten lies I’ve been telling lately. Mama loved her lettering, sure, and she always kept pretty stationery on hand. But I never gave a rat’s eyeball for handwriting.
Which might be a problem. If Hiram sees my awful penmanship, he might suspect I’m pulling his leg, so I add, “To be honest, my penmanship is terrible. But I was getting better at it! And I just . . . well, I suppose I miss it.”
He considers, tapping the end of his pen to his top lip. “It’s true that all the fine young ladies I knew in Milledgeville were accomplished in the art of correspondence,” he says.
I hold my breath.
“And at the Christmas ball in Sacramento, I expect you will establish some female connections, which you will wish to properly maintain.”
“I reckon so.”
“You must promise to show me your letters before sealing them,” he says.
Blast. “Of course.”
“In that case, I will be glad to share my stationery with you. I’m planning a trip to Sacramento right after Thanksgiving. I can take your letters and post them for you.”
“That would be wonderful. Thank you.”
“Would you like to get started right now?” he asks. A shy, hopeful smile graces his lips. “We could . . . write together. Like you and Elizabeth used to.”
Caught in my own trap. Now I’ll have to pretend to write letters to people I pretend to care about. Annabelle Smith feels so far away and part of such a different world that I don’t know if we’d recognize each other in the street. I suppose I’d write to Jim Boisclair if I could. But I have no idea where he is. I last saw him in Independence, before he headed west for California. I’d surely love to run into him someday, though I know my chances are small, this being such a huge territory.
“It’s been a very long time since I’ve written anything,” I say. “I’d like to start by practicing my letters, if you’ve pen and paper to spare.”
“I do,” he says.
I sit at the table and roll up my sleeves to keep them out of the ink while he rummages through his desk for paper, pen, and inkwell. He opens the back of the pen and pours several drops of ink inside before closing it back up.
“This is costly,” he says, setting everything on the table beside me. “So write small. And that is my only spare pen, so be gentle. I’ll pick up more stationery when I can, along with extra nibs and more ink. But this will have to do for now.”
“I wouldn’t mind a slate,” I say. “To practice with until my penmanship is no longer a disgrace.”
“That’s a good idea,” he says.
It’s a fabulous idea. One of my best. I could write messages and simply erase them, if I had a slate and some chalk. That would give me a much better way to communicate with Jefferson.
“Go ahead and get started. I’ll check with the headman. He just might have a slate in stock. Lots of miners use slates for signage.”
“The headman?”
“The leader of the Chinese. He acts as a peddler here in camp. Has a tent full of oddities. Surely you’ve seen him?”
“Yes, sir.”
He leaves the cabin, and I set to work pretending to care about penmanship. The ink is slow to reach the nib, and I scratch a tiny hole in the paper with my first few attempts. I lick my fingers and pinch the resulting moisture against the nib, and a few tries later the ink flows nice as you please.
Starting at the very corner of the sheet and writing small, I begin scripting the uppercase alphabet. I do a terrible job of it, smearing my B and my H badly. I press on doggedly, but it’s hard to concentrate. A slate! Please, please let the headman have a slate in stock.
Writing has always seemed a useless task to me. It’s hardly something that puts food on the table or a roof over your head, and it requires the kind of stilled focus I’d rather save for bagging a nice fat deer. But now that I’ve spoken the lie, I have to live with it.
I’m finishing off my X with a swirling loop—which looks too much like an accidental blot—when Hiram returns.
In his hand is a dark green slate inside an oak frame and several pieces of chalk. “Look what I found!” he says.
I don’t have to fake my smile. “Thank you so much.”
He glances down at my sloppy alphabet and gets a pained expression.
“I told you my penmanship is a disgrace, and it’s worse for lack of practice. But I’ll get better, I promise.”
“I know you will,” he says, and his gaze on me is so fond and proud, you’d think he actually cared.
Hiram takes up the paper, pen, and ink and puts the slate and chalk in their place on the table.
I start my alphabet over again, writing as slow as I can to preserve my chalk, because I’ll need all of it for tonight. It’s going to be a long, long day.
I lie in bed forever, listening to the night noise of camp—a few distant conversations, some laughter, a snorting burro, a crackling fire. Gradually it all fades. It’s too late in the season for crickets and frogs, and I find the silence odd. Maybe even frightening. I like knowing there’s some kind of life outside these walls.
I listen, too, for my uncle. The scratch of his pen, the scrape of his chair. He always stays up late, and the light from his lantern edges my quilt-covered doorway.
I hold the slate to my chest. Hiram didn’t put up a fight when I brought it to my bedroom, didn’t even raise an eyebrow. And now I’ll use it to talk to someone. Maybe even Jefferson.
Please, let it be Jefferson.
Then again, talking to him might put him at risk. It would be best if he stayed far away from me right now.
My uncle’s lantern goes dark. The floor creaks. I slide my slate beneath my bed quilt and close my eyes tight. Air whispers across my face when he lifts the quilt in the doorway and stands there awhile, staring. I will my muscles to stillness, to keeping my breath regular.
The floor creaks again when he walks away, and I hear the soft clunk of his bedroom door as he finally retires for the night.
I lie awake a long time, hoping I’ll see Jefferson, hoping I won’t see Jefferson, wondering what I’ll say to whoever shows up.
A light tap sounds at my window.
I lurch up off the bed before I can tell myself to be slow and silent. I grab the slate, step onto the chest, peer outside, and all the breath leaves my body—from both relief and dread, because it is Jefferson, grinning like a madman.
The moon is barely a thumbnail sliver, and a single lantern sways from one of the Chinese tents, giving shape to his silhouette. My legs twitch with the need to run outside and throw my arms around him and have a real conversation, but last time I sneaked out, someone saw me.
Instead, I write on my slate: How did you get out? And I put it up to the window.
His eyes widen at the sight of my slate. Then he fogs the window with his breath and uses his forefinger to write:
I gape at the word, spending a precious moment making sure I’m parsing it true. To the slate, I add: A foreman is helping you?
Jefferson nods.
Why?
He hesitates a moment, then writes:
And I guess that’s part of the problem. Bad men are never all bad, and good men are never all good, and it makes it hard to know up from down. I erase the slate with the side of my hand and write: Is it a trap? Is he a spy?
Jefferson shakes his head emphatically no.
What’s the plan?
He makes an O with his lips and leans toward the window. I want to lean forward and kiss him through the glass. Then it becomes clouded, and his fingertip scrawls a new word.
I nod. I knew this already. What do you want me to do?
Get laudanum from Wilhelm?
He n
ods.
My heart races. How?
He shakes his head and gestures with his hands, a giving motion, from him to me.
I erase the first half of my board and start writing: You give me gunpwdr?
He nods.
That’ll be a distraction, for sure. Why me?
That makes sense. I’m not searched. In fact, I might be the only person who leaves the mine without being searched. What do I do with it?
I’ve seen the barrels of gunpowder just outside the mine, protected from the rain by canvas. Another barrel sits in the foremen’s break area. Muskrat and Mary must be planning on using some of it for their distraction, but I have no idea how someone will pass it to me without being seen. In a jar? A folded-up handkerchief? Where could I possibly hide it?
I write: Where?
He shrugs. Then he gives a little start, and he writes:
I’m about to protest, but I remember how Mary empties the bucket every morning when she comes to make us breakfast, sometimes even before I’m awake.
I write: Smart.
We stare at each other through the glass. I suppose he’s said what he came to say, but I don’t want him to leave. I don’t ever want him to leave again.
Quickly I write: Hiram burned Daddy’s boots.
Tears leak from my eyes as I raise the slate back up to the window.
Jefferson’s face turns angry and fierce, and just being able to tell him, watching him be furious on my behalf, is the greatest comfort I’ve had in a long while.
He writes:
I erase and write: He says he’s my real father.
Jefferson gapes. Then he shakes his head. He writes:
His lips move: Never
I put my fingertips to the window, and he reaches up and mirrors me, finger for finger. Even though it’s dark, even though his black eyes are lost in shadow, I sense his agony. It’s in the set of his shoulders, his lips pressed tight. What are they doing to him? If they’ve hurt Jefferson . . .
One last time, he fogs the window and writes:
My heart races. I wipe off my slate, but then I stare at it, not sure what to write.
Jefferson answers my hesitation with a lightning grin that could brighten a whole dark night. He wipes off the window, erasing all traces of our conversation. He’s still grinning as he dashes away.
If he can find something to grin about in our situation, then maybe there’s reason to hope, after all. I only wish I felt it, too.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“You got chalk on your dress,” Hiram says with a frown.
We’re sitting at the breakfast table, eating fried eggs and buttermilk biscuits with honey.
“Sorry,” I mumble around a mouthful of eggs.
His frown deepens.
I mentally kick myself. I know better than to talk with my mouth full in my uncle’s presence. I swallow quickly and add, “I’ll wash up better before heading to the mine today.”
“See that you do.”
I nod as I take another bite.
“You’re developing a reputation as a fine young lady with proper airs and grooming. I want to keep it that way.”
I almost choke. “I am?”
“Indeed.” His smile makes my very toes shiver. “In fact, I’ve received two offers for your hand.” I’m not sure what that means at first. Does someone want my help with something? Finally it dawns on me. My hand in marriage.
“Who?” I squeak out.
“The Chinese headman,” he says. “He sent another man to suggest a wedding date and negotiate a bride price. Offered a tea set, can you imagine? Naturally I declined.”
“Naturally,” I say in a thin voice.
“Don’t worry, sweet pea. You’re young for marriage, but when I do consent to give you away, it will be to an upstanding American citizen with good breeding.”
I frown. I suppose my uncle would consider Jefferson to have terrible “breeding,” even though he can recite all the presidents backward and do long division in his head.
“You said two offers,” I remind him.
“The other was from Abel Topper.”
“What?” Is there anyone in this whole blasted territory who isn’t consumed with acquiring a woman?
My uncle grins. “Well, he asked to court you, with the intention of eventual marriage. Said you had grown into a fine, handsome lady, against everyone’s expectations. He was very clumsy about the whole thing. It made me shudder. I told him I’d think about it.”
“First you give my horse to him, and now—”
“Now, now, control your nerves, Leah. I have no intention of giving you to one of my foremen. We can make a much more advantageous match for ourselves than that. I expect you’ll meet far more eligible men at the Christmas ball.”
The eggs are like sawdust in my mouth. Hiram talks like I’m a prime breeding mare, to be dispensed with at auction to the best bidder. And why not? Hiram considers me his property.
“In the meantime,” he continues, “I’d appreciate it if you would be very polite to Mr. Topper. Even solicitous. We need to make quota every day until the ball, so I need him working hard.”
“You want me to string him along.”
He blinks. “Well, that’s a vulgar way of putting it.”
“Does your note come due soon? Is that why quota is so important right now?” I know this already, of course, but I want to see if he’ll tell me.
His gaze slides away from my face, and he becomes absorbed by the half-eaten biscuit on his plate. “Yes,” he admits.
“Who do we owe the money to?” I hate using “we” to discuss the mine, this camp, Hiram’s debt, but I’m hoping the gesture will make him trust me.
“No one you know. A very successful man who made his fortune, first with gold, then by selling land plots in Sacramento. He’s contending for California’s first governorship, though I expect he won’t get it.”
“I see.” James Henry Hardwick. James Henry Hardwick. “Will I meet him at the Christmas ball?”
“It’s very likely.”
I intend to be long gone by then, but I say, “I promise I’ll do my best to charm him utterly.”
Hiram gives me such a wide, warm, genuine smile that it takes me aback. “That’s my girl,” he says.
He excuses himself to run errands, making me promise to practice my penmanship. I breathe deep as soon as the cabin door shuts behind him. It always seems like the air is a little lighter, a little fresher, after he is gone.
“Mary,” I begin cautiously. There’s no one to overhear us that I know of, but she’s always so careful when she’s inside this cabin, and I follow her lead.
She turns to face me.
“May I take the extra biscuits today? My escort will enjoy them.”
It’s the only thing I can think of to bribe Wilhelm with. There is no reaction in her lovely features that I can see, but she takes a basket from the shelf in front of her and plops it onto the table before me.
I peel back the linen to find a whole mess of warm biscuits. More importantly, my gold sense sharpens, becomes a harsh prickle in my throat.
Following the sense, I reach inside, tunneling through the biscuits. Something cool, flat, and round jumps into my hand.
I pull it out. It’s a gold eagle coin, worth five dollars. It should be enough to tempt Wilhelm away from some of his laudanum. This is better than anything I would have come up with. Once again, I feel like I’m running behind and trying to catch up.
“Thank you for the biscuits,” I say. Mary gives me nothing but silence in response and returns to her chores.
I have money and biscuits to buy laudanum. Now I need to figure out a way to smuggle gunpowder out of the mine.
This dress Hiram insists I wear has no pockets. Maybe Mary has an apron or pinafore I could borrow. Then again, it would seem very suspicious if I suddenly started wearing a pinafore. Also, I have a feeling that covering up this dress in any way would anger my uncle beyond reason.
> My new, dainty boots are too tiny and tight to slip anything inside. The dress’s high collar prevents me from sneaking anything down my bodice.
Perhaps these sleeves . . . I consider them a moment. The lace might disguise any bulges, especially in the murk of the mine. Daylight, however, would be another thing entirely. And it would have to be a very small package of gunpowder to fit under a sleeve.
I sigh. I don’t even know exactly what I’ll be smuggling out of there.
The air in the cabin is colder than usual, so I open the box stove and toss in some fresh wood. It hisses and pops a little—the wood wasn’t quite cured—as I close the door to the stove and begin to pace.
Frost edges the glass of the front window. Winter will be here soon. The Indians in the stockade will be in even worse trouble then. Our thanksgiving plan, whatever it is, has to work. So I need to do my part.
If I had a needle and thread, I could cut a piece of fabric from the old blue dress and create a pocket for the new one. I’m not a proficient seamstress, but Mama taught me the basics, and I’m sure I could wrangle something.
Maybe I can get sewing supplies from the Chinese headman, though my belly churns to imagine talking to a stranger who offered my uncle a bride price for me. Would it bother my uncle if I acquired a needle? He won’t even let a butter knife into the house.
I continue pacing, to my bedroom and back, over the small braid rug, past the writing desk. Something above the writing desk catches my eye.
It’s a small pelt, stretched along the wall for decoration. It was taken from a snowshoe rabbit with winter-white fur.
Annabelle Smith back home always wore a rabbit-fur muff in winter. It was one of her prize possessions.
Could my solution possibly be so easy?
I step onto my uncle’s writing chair and reach for the pelt. It’s nailed to the wall, but with patience and care, I’m able to work it off the nails without tearing larger holes.