A Most Unsuitable Match (9 page)

Minette said Daniel Hennessey filled a part of her she hadn’t even known was empty. That was what Fannie wanted. That breathless feeling she’d seen on both Minette and Daniel’s faces when they’d embraced on the lawn on Sunday evening. She wanted that—not the dry, lifeless
tolerance
displayed between Mother and Papa. Never that.

As she stumbled along the brick walkway leading home, the dark cloud returned. The future looked so very bleak. What was she going to do? In the midst of those gathering storm clouds, the mystery surrounding Edith LeClerc called to her, a persistent glimmer, an unspoken hope-laden promise.
I’m not alone in the world.

The familiar sound of a steamboat whistle rolled up from the levee. Fannie looked toward the river just as the vessel paddled into view. She could barely make out the name.
Delores.
Where had she heard that . . . Minette! Minette’s Daniel had negotiated “favorable terms” with Otto Busch, the captain who would pilot the
Delores
to Fort Benton with Beauvais cargo aboard. Fannie glanced down at the envelope in her hand. Aunt Edith had mentioned Otto Busch in that last letter. Something about his objecting to unaccompanied women on his steamers . . . but that
she
wasn’t going to let that stop her. Might Captain Busch remember Edith LeClerc?

Taking a deep breath, Fannie headed toward the landing, where a mountain of shipping crates marked
Beauvais
waited to be loaded on board. As laborers scurried to tie up the steamer, she peered up at the wheelhouse and the man guiding the steamboat toward shore. With clatters and clangs, bangs and shouts, the
Delores
nosed up to the levee. A tall roustabout thrust a gangplank toward the shore. A dozen tough-looking men marched ashore to load cargo. In spite of his size, the tall one who’d cast the gangplank into place didn’t look quite as rough as the rest. Fannie approached him and asked if she might speak with Captain Otto Busch.

The first thing Samuel did when the blue-eyed beauty looked up at him and asked about talking to Captain Busch was to snatch his hat off his head. The abundance of black silk ruffles and the jet earbobs and gold mourning brooch spoke of money, and a good deal of it. What was she doing alone on the St. Charles levee? Before Samuel had a chance to say a word to her, the captain hollered, “Beck! Quit yer lollygagging and get to work!”

Samuel turned around and shouted back, “She wants to speak with you, sir!” He hoped Busch would spare the pretty little thing his usual profanity. Amazingly, he did, shouting for Samuel to escort the lady on board and meet him up on the hurricane deck.

Hearing the captain’s invitation, the lady in question scurried up the gangplank, leaving Samuel in her rose-scented wake. Her black silk skirts rustled as she lifted them enough to mount the stairs leading up from the main deck. Samuel caught a glimpse of a finely formed, leather-encased ankle, as she glided up the stairs ahead of him and crossed to where Captain Busch waited at the railing.

To Samuel’s surprise, Busch seemed to have evolved into a gentleman between the wheelhouse and the hurricane deck. He actually bowed as he introduced himself. “Captain Otto Busch at your service,
mademoiselle
.”

The lady curtsied and introduced herself. “Miss Fannie Rousseau.”

“Rousseau . . .” the captain murmured. “Of the Rousseau Line?” Yes, Miss Rousseau said, Louis Rousseau was her father. The captain offered his condolences over her recent loss. She thanked him and reached for the leather envelope tucked beneath her arm. At which time Busch scowled at Samuel. “Is there some reason you’re standing there while the rest of the crew loads cargo?”

“N-no, sir,” Samuel said. “Except y-you said—”

“I said to escort the lady to the hurricane deck,” Busch groused, “and you have.”

Samuel saluted and headed off, pausing at the stairs just long enough for one more look at the lady. In another life, he would have been thinking of how to wrangle an introduction. How to get his name on her dance card. But he’d left that life—mostly for Emma’s sake. He’d never go back to it for his own. And it was time to get back to work.

Recognition flashed in Captain Busch’s dark eyes as he looked down at Edith LeClerc’s photograph, but his reaction was nothing like Mr. Vandekamp’s. The captain smiled as he looked back at Fannie. “Your aunt, you say?”

“Yes, sir. But I’ve only just become aware of her. She mentions you in one of her letters. Something about talking you into taking her to Fort Benton.”

Busch nodded. “And she did. Against my better judgment and against every reasonable argument. But she convinced me she was an honorable woman, and it was clear she was going, come what may. I decided she might as well be on board my packet as another.” He paused then and, taking a pipe out of his pocket, asked Fannie’s permission to light it.

Fannie gave it before asking, “Do you think that if I wrote her in Fort Benton, a letter would have any chance of reaching her?”

“Impossible to know. She was gold crazy like the rest of the passengers on that trip. Although I will tell you that, were I a gambling man wagering on the chances of any woman having success in Montana, I’d wager on Miss Edie LeClerc.” His eyes flashed with humor. “She was a caution, that woman. I can tell you she disembarked at Fort Benton. As I recall, she’d made arrangements to head for Alder Gulch with a group of miners she met on the way, and they were all intending to travel with a freighter one of them had heard about. A man by the name of Babe Cox.”

“Alder Gulch?”

“The gold diggings there yielded ten million in ’63 and ’64. Your aunt,” he said, tapping the photo with a fingertip, “was among those who believed there was still plenty to be had.” He paused. “Of course, tales of rich veins tend to change with the wind, so where Edie might have ended up, who can say.” He smiled. “If she’s still in Montana, Miss Rousseau, I imagine she’s made a name for herself. She is not a woman people soon forget.”

“So . . . there might be a chance of finding her . . . if someone were to go looking.”

Busch eyed her for a moment. “You thinking of hiring Pinkertons?”

If only I could.
Fannie shook her head.

“I’ll tell you what. Your father was one of the better men I’ve met on this river. He believed in me when I was a fresh young pilot and others didn’t. You write your letter, Miss Rousseau. I’ll see what I can do about helping it find your aunt.”

Fannie thanked him. “When are you leaving?”

Busch nodded toward the piles of freight on the levee. “It’ll take a few hours to load all of that. We’ll pull out at first light in the morning.”

How many hands would a letter have to pass through? How easily would a letter get lost or forgotten? Was that the best way to find Aunt Edith? Now that she’d heard someone talk about the woman, Fannie wanted to meet her more than ever. She didn’t really want to wait for an answer that might never come.

“How much is passage?” The minute she’d blurted out the question, Fannie’s heart began to pound with a combination of nerves and . . . anticipation.

Busch shook his head. “I said I owe your father a debt, miss. Hauling his only daughter to a place like Fort Benton is no way for me to repay it.”

Fannie looked out on the busy levee. The tall roustabout who’d brought her up here to talk to the captain was helping an older man carry a huge crate on board. She put Aunt Edith’s photo away. “Is there anything I could say that would change your mind?”

“Write your letter, Miss Rousseau. Bring it back before we cast off, and you have my word I’ll do my best to see that your aunt receives it.” The captain tipped his cap. “Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .” With a little bow, he headed off up the walkway leading alongside the cabins.

Something about the way the captain dismissed her reminded Fannie of Mr. Vandekamp’s shuttling her out of his office. Oh, Captain Busch had been more tactful about it, but she was still being turned away. Shoved aside. Patted on the head like a child and told to let the adults in the room handle things.

Why did men do that? Shouldn’t she have a say in her own future? Why shouldn’t she be able to do what she wanted? What was so horrible about escaping St. Charles and its problems for a few weeks?

Escape.
What a wonderful word. Escape to a place where looming debt didn’t stare her in the face every single day; where she didn’t have to hear monotonous hints about marriage and, best of all, where Mr. Vandekamp couldn’t threaten to dismiss Hannah.
Because Hannah will go with me. I know she will.

Fannie called after the captain. “Tell me, Captain Busch, if you thought I
was
going to head north . . . ‘come what may’ . . . would you prefer that I be on board a steamer whose captain felt a debt to my father . . . or on board some other vessel in the company of strangers?”

Busch turned around. He considered her question for a moment. Walked back her way. Scrutinized her expression while he savored his pipe. “Are you telling me, Miss Rousseau, that that is your intent?”

“Papa’s business is failing. I may lose my home. I’m being pressured to marry a man who—” she shuddered—“who is completely unsuitable.” She held up the envelope. “Thinking about meeting Aunt Edith makes me feel . . . hopeful. I can’t see anything wrong with leaving the problems I have for a little while. They’ll all still be here when I get back. I’m the only one who can search for Edith LeClerc, because I’m the only one who cares to do it. I’m certain my maid will want to come with me. And the more I think about Aunt Edith, the more I care about finding her. Please, Captain Busch . . . won’t you help me?”

Somehow, it was easier to meet this man’s gaze than Hubert Vandekamp’s. Maybe it was because Otto Busch had smiled at Aunt Edith’s photograph. Maybe it was because respect—sometimes grudging respect—had been the common thread running through all the stories she’d ever heard about the man. Somehow, she knew he was a man she could trust. Why she didn’t feel that way about Mr. Vandekamp, she would ponder over time. Right now, she had to concentrate on looking more confident than she felt while Captain Busch studied her.

“You really mean to go,” he finally said.

“I do.”

He considered for a moment more and then, finally, nodded. “Well then, Miss Rousseau. You’d better get packed. The
Delores
doesn’t wait for latecomers.” He paused. “I’ll send Beck for your trunks at sundown.”

Fannie could hardly believe what she was hearing. “How much does it cost?”
Please, God, let there be enough in Papa’s cashbox. Mr. Vandekamp will never give me the money.

Busch scowled. “Who said anything about a cost? Consider it final payment on the debt I owe your father. And never tell a living soul I let you on board without your paying. It’ll ruin my reputation as a son-of-a-willy-walloo.”

By the time Fannie swished through the creaking front gate at home and tripped up the side steps into the house, she had talked herself into believing that what some might call ridiculous and outlandish was also inspired. If only Hannah would see things her way. The knot of anticipation in her midsection made her voice tremble when she paused in the kitchen doorway and called out to Hannah, “I need . . . your help.”