Boston Jane (2 page)

“Me first,” Horace Fink declared, snatching up an apple.

He waited for a passing carriage to go by and then threw. The apple just skimmed the trunk of the tree.

“Even Jane can do better than that,” Jebediah sniffed. He handed me a particularly rotten specimen of an apple.

Horace Fink smirked at me. “You couldn’t hit a stone wall.”

Jebediah rolled his eyes as if to say that Horace Fink was as thick as the tree he had missed.

“Go on then,” Godfrey Hale taunted.

The sun was shining brightly, the air still, the rotten apple heavy in my hand. I looked at Horace Fink’s smirking face. What was I to do? Really, did I even have a choice?

Certainly not
.

I wound up and threw as hard as I could. And as the apple left my hand, Sally Biddle stepped out of her house.

Need I tell you that Sally was everything that I was not? She was thirteen and perfect in all respects. Her waist was thin as a ribbon, her golden hair always styled in ringlet curls to perfection, and her skin white as milk. She was as stiff and neat as her crisp petticoats.

Time seemed to stand still, appalled, as my apple went flying through the air. It missed the tree completely and smashed square onto the bosom of Sally Biddle’s pale rose dress.

I froze.

Then Sally Biddle let loose a scream so loud that windows up and down Arch Street shuddered and shook.

Horace Fink hooted with laughter. “Bully for Jane!” he shouted.

Across the street Sally Biddle was left in no doubt as to the identity of the guilty party.

“Jane Peck!” she hissed, eyes flashing.

And that was the beginning of my bad luck.

Five years later, as I sailed aboard a brig named the
Lady Luck
, it seemed bad luck was something I would never escape.

You see, when I’d dreamed of my sixteenth birthday, I had pictured an afternoon tea with girls in lovely gowns, flowers everywhere, and perhaps even one of Mrs. Parker’s cherry pies. It’s fair to say I’d never imagined being stuck in a tiny airless cabin, the same cabin that had been home for months on end. Instead of flowers and pie, I had a hard, narrow bunk, a rickety table and chairs, and a tiny window that wouldn’t open (a most helpful feature).

At the beginning of the voyage, I had attempted to make the cabin comfortable. I’d put a linen tablecloth on the table and set embroidered cushions on the chairs. I’d laid out new china, placed a crystal vase on a small shelf, and hung a mirror on the wall.

Samuel, the cabin boy, had come by and looked around, dumbstruck.

“You sure you want to be putting all that out?” he’d asked.

That first night at sea, we sailed into a storm. Need I describe the horror that followed? The tablecloth slipped off, the cushions bounced about, the china shattered into a million pieces, and the mirror came crashing down. My companion, Mary, caught the crystal vase as it fell, and I later packed it away in my camphor wood chest along with the cushions and tablecloth. But the broken mirror had seemed a bad omen.

In the place where the mirror had hung, Mary pegged up a piece of paper with two columns. The left column said “Days at Sea,” and the right said “Fleas Killed.” The cabin was absolutely bursting with fleas. No matter that we shook out our blankets every day and killed as many of the pests as possible—they multiplied with staggering speed.

On the day of my birthday, I lay all morning on that hard wooden bunk, nearly unable to stand from seasickness. By noon I was no better. The ship hit a wave, and Mary groaned from her bunk on the other side of the cabin. She was nearly as sick as I.

“Happy birthday, Jane my girl,” she said in her thick Irish brogue. Her face was ashen, and her black hair looked decidedly dull.

“I expect Sally Biddle didn’t spend her sixteenth birthday with her head over a bucket,” I said, a miserable expression on my face.

“No, but just thinking about that girl makes me want to puke,” Mary said loyally, a spark lighting her dark eyes.

I smiled weakly.

The ship rolled hard, and her arm struck the bunk. She winced.

“How is your arm?” I asked.

Days earlier, I had awakened in the middle of the night to Mary’s screams. Among the assorted vermin on board was a surfeit of rats, who sauntered about as bold as you please. A big, fat fellow had bitten her and then scurried off into a hole in the wall, his wormy pink tail slithering out of sight behind him.

Mary held up her arm with a grimace. Yellow pus leaked through the bandages. “I’d better change that,” I said, and stood up, but before I could take a step, the ship hit a rolling wave. My belly heaved. I leaped for the bucket and sat down hard in a chair.

At that most inconvenient moment, Father Joseph banged on our cabin door.

“Mesdemoiselles,” he called.

Mary groaned from the bunk and pulled the covers over her head.

Father Joseph was a French Catholic missionary. While Mary and I had spent most of the voyage being sick, he had spent most of it preaching, no doubt to be in good form to convert the savages we would find at the end of our journey. We tried to be polite to him, but Father Joseph did try one’s nerves.

“Come in,” I called. As he entered I reluctantly gestured to
the other chair, sliding the reeking bucket under the table with my foot.

“And how does this day find you, Mademoiselle Peck?”

“Tolerably well,” I replied. Tolerably well, if you considered being seasick and killing fleas respectable pursuits for a young lady on her sixteenth birthday.

“I am here to talk to you about the savages,” he announced, eyes shining. Father Joseph wore a thick, black wool robe and collar, and his head was as bald as an egg. He had huge, hairy eyebrows that perched atop his eyes like fuzzy caterpillars. When he was excited, his eyebrows danced around most alarmingly.

“Not the blasted savages again,” Mary whispered from beneath her blankets, and even I groaned inwardly. It was his favorite sermon, and he had preached it at least twice a week since leaving port. I could practically preach it myself by now.

“It is our Christian duty to show the savages the way of Christ,” Father Joseph began, waving his arms in swooping gestures. “For they are the most unfortunate of God’s creatures,” he declared.

I murmured sympathetically. Privately I considered us more unfortunate than the savages. At least
they
were on dry land.

Father Joseph’s eyebrows were twitching.

“Death can come at any time! The kingdom of heaven is open only to those who do God’s will,” he thundered, banging his fist on our rickety table for emphasis. It shuddered.

“Father,” I said. “The table.”

From the bunk Mary moaned dramatically. “I think I’m gonna puke,” she said loudly, and groaned again.

Father Joseph eyed Mary’s bunk warily.

“Perhaps we can continue this some other time,” I suggested helpfully.

“But mademoiselle …” He hesitated.

“Pass me the bucket, Jane my girl.” Mary groaned even louder. She started making retching noises.

Father Joseph looked nervously at Mary’s bunk and quickly stood up. “Another time then, mesdemoiselles,” he said, and made a hasty exit.

The door slammed shut.

Mary’s black-haired head popped up from beneath the covers.

“Good riddance,” she laughed, her eyes merry. “I’ve heard some of the lads say the church shipped him out so they didn’t have to listen to his preaching!”

“That’s not a very charitable thing to say,” I admonished, but laughed. Mary was so naughty sometimes.

Mary shook her head, which sent her curls flying. “I feel sorry for the savages. He’ll bore them to death before he even converts the first of them!”

Mary was not much given to good manners, but I had hope for her. Look how far I had come.

But then, I’d had considerable motivation.

You see, from the day my apple had made its acquaintance with her bodice, Sally Biddle had considered it her sovereign duty to torment me.

One late autumn afternoon had found Jebediah and me playing in the street. We were tossing manure at the backs of carriages.

“Jane, you really should use the fresh pats. They stick better,”
Jebediah suggested helpfully, flinging one at a passing carriage to demonstrate.

Just then Sally Biddle came sauntering down the cobblestone street, a gaggle of girls in her wake.

“It’s a disgrace the way you’re always running around with scabby boys,” Sally Biddle sniffed, tossing her blond hair. Her corkscrew curls stood out like a pack of little pigs’ tails all in a row. “An eleven-year-old really ought to know better.”

I eyed Jebediah’s knees. Come to think of it, they were scabby.

“Just look at yourself,” Sally continued. “No wonder all the mothers keep their daughters from you!”

The girls gave little nods of agreement.

I looked down at myself, wondering what she meant. It was true my apron had a cherry stain on it, but this was no different from any other day. And perhaps my hair was a bit tangled and my nails were a bit stained, though that was to be expected when handling manure pats.

All the mothers kept their daughters away from me? It had never occurred to me to wonder why the other girls never played with me. After all, I had Papa and Jebediah.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

But Sally Biddle ignored me and turned to the girls.

“My mother says it’s a shame that Dr. Peck has never remarried, but that it’s perfectly understandable. After all, what respectable lady would want to deal with a girl like Jane? It would be like bringing a street urchin into your home.” She spoke conversationally, as if she were discussing the weather or a new bonnet.

I suddenly remembered all the times I’d come home late for
supper, tracking manure from the street. How Papa would sometimes look at me and shake his head and sigh heavily. Was he secretly ashamed of me? Was I truly a disgrace? A cold, sick feeling curled in my belly.

The corners of Sally’s mouth turned up in a small smile, and the sight of that knowing smile made my back stiffen. The words tumbled from my mouth in a rush.

“Papa loved my mother!” I blurted. “He’s never cared for another woman!”

Sally turned on me smoothly, not a petticoat out of order, not a bow out of place. “Then he must not care for
you
very much.” She paused, drawing the moment out. “After all, you’re the reason she’s dead!”

I stumbled back as if I’d been punched hard in the belly, the air going out of me in a rush, leaving my knees wobbly.

The other girls looked at Sally and laughed uncomfortably.

“She probably died from the shame of having a girl like you!” Sally added, and burst into peals of laughter.

I couldn’t bear to hear any more.

I turned and ran.

Sally Biddle was relentless.

On an exceptionally mild February afternoon in the year 1850, I was sitting on the front step of our house on Walnut Street eating a piece of Mrs. Parker’s cherry pie. Suddenly Sally Biddle appeared, like a mosquito scenting a plump, bare leg. Cora Fletcher was with her. Cora was an almost perfect replica of Sally, right down to her rabbit fur muff.

“Everyone knows that all the best people live on Arch Street,” Sally Biddle remarked to Cora, as if I weren’t sitting right there.

I paused, fork to my lips.

“Take this house, for instance,” she said. “Why, it looks older than our stables.” Sally Biddle’s eyes slid up and down our house with barely concealed contempt.

I looked at our house as if for the first time.

How small and shabby it appeared! The front door needed painting, and the shutter near my bedroom window was nearly falling off from the time I had tried to climb down it. And why, our house was only two stories, instead of three stories like the houses on either side! How had I never noticed these things before? The pie in my mouth abruptly tasted sour.

Sally Biddle’s eyes shined at the expression on my face.

It seemed in that moment that my entire life was a sham. I was a disgrace to my papa, I had killed my own mother, and our house was poor. I felt tears well up in my eyes.

“I declare I have never seen so fine a house in all of Philadelphia,” a voice broke in.

Standing next to our gate, the buttery late afternoon sun lighting his pale blond hair like a halo, was a young man holding a leather satchel.

Sally Biddle gaped at him. Cora Fletcher gaped at him.

I
gaped at him.

With his beautiful gray eyes and chiseled chin, he was hard not to gape at.

“I’m William Baldt,” my hero said, tipping his hat. “And that’s a nice piece of pie you have there.”

Was there ever a young man such as William Baldt?

How to describe his perfection? His gray eyes, deep and wise. His lovely eyelashes, thick as a girl’s, and his hair, golden and smooth, like spun wheat. Then there was his elegant nose, straight as a rail. Not to mention he had all of his teeth, front and back! And did I remark upon his ears? The perfect shape of each pink lobe?

William had come to live with us and apprentice to my father. He stayed in the spare bedroom at the back of the house and took supper with us each evening. There had been other young men who had apprenticed to my father in the past, but never one so handsome or fine or with such a charming chin.