Lily (Song of the River) (2 page)

Forgetting that she was not chasing one of her sisters in the gardens at home, Lily grabbed her skirts and dashed after him. “Stop, thief!”

Heads turned, but no one seemed to absorb the meaning of her words, or perhaps no one wanted to help.

Lily couldn’t let him get away with her reticule. It held too many valuables, like the handkerchief her sister had embroidered for her last year. Was the distance between them narrowing? It seemed so. She pushed her legs to their limit. He would have to stop running at the bank. There was nowhere for him to go.

But she underestimated her quarry. He glanced back, and she caught a glimpse of his wide green eyes. She bunched her skirt with one hand and reached out with the other, nearly catching hold of his skinny arm.

The boy avoided her grasp by inches and sprinted up the muddy bank. He hesitated a bare instant before leaping across a narrow stretch of stagnant water to land like a cat on the deck of a barge laden with wooden casks.

Lily stood panting, her gaze clashing with the young thief’s. “Come back here with my bag!” Forming the words made her tongue sting, but she ignored the pain.

An impish grin split the boy’s freckled face. “Come take it from me.” He made a face before turning away.

Frustration boiled through her. Lily measured the distance to the boat. She would have to leap across nearly two feet of water. She would never make it.

The boy walked to the front end of the barge and jumped from it to a side-wheeler, one of the steamboats whose giant paddle wheel was mounted along its center instead of its back end.

She paralleled his progress on the bank, hoping to find a way to reach him. Squinting against the sunlight, she thought she could see a gangplank ahead that had been extended to the bank. Perhaps she could catch up with him there and wrest her property from his thieving hands.

A steamboat whistle blew its mournful tones, and a nearby paddle wheel began to thrash the water. The sound must have distracted the boy as he jumped once more because he misjudged the distance. Lily watched in horror as his feet teetered on the edge of the steamboat deck he was trying to reach. Then he fell backward into the river and disappeared.

“Help!” She croaked the word, her throat dry from her exertions. Lily took a deep breath and tried again. “Help—man—overboard!” Her shout was louder and garnered more attention from the nearby deckhands.

The many boats vying for space near the bank made the water appear paved with decks. Lily pointed a shaking hand to the place where the towheaded boy had disappeared. Time stretched endlessly as she waited to see if he would resurface. Had he drowned?

Her heart faltered. She should not have chased him. A prayer of supplication slipped from her lips as guilt pressed down on her.

“What’s going on out here?” A tall, dark-haired man strode onto the deck of the steamboat where the child had fallen. His eyes, as blue as a summer sky, sharpened as he glared at her. “Are you responsible for all the noise?”

She gulped in air and nodded. “Child … overboard … chasing.” The steamboat rocked gently in the water, and she gasped. If they started the huge paddle at the back of the boat, the child might be dragged into it and killed.

His gaze left hers and swept the water. A gurgle alerted him, and he ran to the edge of his steamboat, dropping to one knee in a fluid movement and reaching into the water. When his hand lifted up, she could see the child’s wet blond hair and waxen face. The stranger heaved mightily and lifted the boy onto the deck.

A roustabout appeared from the darkened recesses of the steamship. He looked over to her before swinging a narrow plank toward the bank.

Lily ran across as soon as it touched the ground.

“You ought to keep a closer eye on your child.” The tall man knelt over the boy, but his gaze speared her.

She could feel her cheeks warming under his intense stare. How rude. Did he really think she was old enough to be the boy’s mother? Her mouth opened and closed, reminding her once again of her aching tongue.

The boy coughed and pushed himself to a sitting position, relieving her concern that he had drowned.

The stranger slapped him on the back. “You’re going to be okay, son.”

The boy nodded and coughed again.

“Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?” A lock of coal-black hair fell across the rescuer’s forehead, making her want to reach out and push it back. Shocked at the errant thought, she dragged her mind back to the subject at hand.

“I’m … he’s not—”

“He’s not dead, no thanks to you.” The man stood up and pushed back the lock of hair with an impatient hand. His eyes were hard and cold.

Before Lily could order her thoughts, the discharge of a gun made her jump.

The stranger took two steps forward, placing his body between her and the dock. “Get back.” He pulled his own weapon free of his holster, holding it easily.

Lily’s heart thumped in time with the paddle wheel on the boat next to them. She sidled up closer to the tall stranger and peeked around his shoulder. “What’s going on?”

The man did not answer. All she could see was a knot of men standing on the dock. One of them was pointing back the way she had come, and Lily suddenly thought of Aunt Dahlia. Had she been hurt? Robbed? Had the cutpurse who had gotten her own reticule been a distraction to separate the two of them?

Unseen hands shoved rudely against the small of her back, unbalancing Lily. She tried to stop her headlong sprawl, but it was no use. She fell hard against the stranger, and he tumbled toward the deck, too. Squeezing her eyes shut, Lily waited for what seemed an eternity for the impact.

Crash. The deck wasn’t as hard as she had thought it would be. She opened one eye and looked into his startled blue gaze. The stranger’s body had cushioned her fall. Somehow he had landed on his backside, so now she was lying on top of him, her nose squashed up against the brass buttons of his brocade vest. “Oh!”

“Are you hurt?” His hands grabbed her shoulders.

“No.” The sound was so soft she couldn’t hear it herself. She’d never had so much trouble with her voice. Lily swallowed. “I’m fine.” Much better. She pushed against his chest but somehow felt bereft when his hands let go of her. It must be relief she was feeling at being freed. It couldn’t be disappointment. …

“This is what I get for being a Good Samaritan.” The irony in his voice stung like a wasp.

Lily slid off him and sat up, one hand checking to see if her hat, a small white cap edged with the same blue lace as her dress, had been knocked awry. It was still firmly affixed. Probably due to Tamar’s careful work of securing it this morning.

The stranger stood up, holstered his gun, and brushed dirt from his clothing, taking an inordinate amount of time. He reached out a hand to help her stand.

She would have liked to refuse it, but she didn’t want any of the strangers on the dock to witness her efforts to stand on her own, so she grimaced and put her hand in his.

He pulled her up with ease, nearly jerking her arm out of its socket. “Don’t expect me to continue rescuing your rambunctious son, madam.” Again with that thick irony.

How dare he? She was not some wayward female. She was the victim. “He’s not my son!” There, she’d finally gotten the words out.

“Well, whoever he is, he’s not staying around to thank his rescuer.”

Lily swung around to see the thief disappearing around a bend in the road. “He took my reticule.”

“I see. Well, I doubt your reticule survived the dunking in the river. I suppose now you expect me to chase after him, but you’ll have to look elsewhere for a knight-errant.” He turned on his heel and stomped toward the interior of the steamboat.

Lily looked after him for a moment before collecting herself. She wondered about the gunshot that had distracted her and the stranger but shrugged. No telling in this part of town. It could have been an argument over words, goods, or even a loose woman.

She made her way to the bank and plodded tiredly back to her aunt. Lily sighed, steeling herself for the lecture she was sure awaited her arrival. At least Aunt Dahlia seemed unharmed, if not happy.

W
here have you been?” Snapping brown eyes inspected Lily’s appearance. Aunt Dahlia’s exaggerated sigh reminded her of the woman’s penchant for blowing every incident out of proportion. “Do you have to act the hoyden?”

“He took my reticule.” Lily dropped her gaze to her feet, unable to bear her aunt’s look of censure. She wished she were anywhere but standing in front of her angry chaperone. She was a grown woman. Hadn’t she been mistaken for the mother of the young boy who had stolen her purse? Not that she wasn’t a bit miffed at being connected to the raggedy youngster. But she was old enough to avoid being treated like a child no older than nine-year-old Jasmine, her youngest sister.

“This is a lawless, wild area. Even in the daylight it’s not safe for women to travel unaccompanied.” Aunt Dahlia raised her ruffled parasol and opened it with a click. “Let’s get to the boat. Hopefully there will be adequate protection amongst our own kind.”

Lily didn’t argue, but she didn’t much feel like the guests at the party were “her own kind.” She felt more kinship with the stevedores and sailors walking up and down Silver Street. They loved the river as much as she did, and she envied them their ability to make their living on the river. With all its hazards, the Mississippi called to her like Homer’s mythological sirens.

“You look as flushed as a washerwoman, Lily Catherine Anderson. I declare I don’t know what to do with you.” Aunt Dahlia shook her head and looked to the cloudless sky. “Your uncle and I have tried to raise you three girls to take your rightful place in society.”

“Yes, ma’am, I’m sorry.” Long experience had taught Lily it was the best answer to give. Silently she listened as her aunt bemoaned all the trials she had endured because of Lily and her sisters.

She followed a step behind her aunt to the boarding platform of the
Hattie Belle
, grateful because arriving at the party would end her aunt’s harangue.

A line of finely dressed matrons were attended by their equally well-dressed spouses. A group of young ladies about Lily’s age were standing in a tight circle, whispering behind their fans and watching the antics of the young men vying for their attention.

Why had she asked permission to attend this soiree? Although the invitation sent by the newly arrived Champney family had intrigued her, she should have known it would be a disaster. Maybe she could salvage a tiny bit of the expectation that had led to her attendance.

She and the other guests were to enjoy a leisurely float down the river to the Champney plantation, where they would disembark and enjoy a light luncheon on the grounds overlooking the river. Then they would return to the steamboat and chug back up to Natchez Under-the-Hill. She supposed it would have been easier and less expensive to go to the Champney mansion by coach, but she was glad their hosts had decided to transport their guests by boat, where there would be dancing—a different kind of ballroom to be sure.

A warm breeze teased at the ladies’ skirts and the men’s hats as the Champneys’ guests waited to cross the gangplank and board the beribboned steamboat. There were three levels on the boat, with the bottom floor almost completely taken up by two forty-foot-long cylinders. Lily knew these were the boilers that would push the long pistons back and forth. The movement of the pistons turned the paddle wheel at the back, which propelled the boat through the water.

Her father had always known by its sound if a boiler was building up too much pressure and might explode. He’d said it was the first thing a sailor should learn about his boat. She could remember spending hours listening to the
hiss
and
whoosh
of his boat’s engine. Being on board this afternoon brought back feelings she thought were long buried—memories of grief and betrayal caused by the death of her mother and her father’s subsequent desertion of his three daughters.

She shook off the dismal thoughts and concentrated on the present. Her interested gaze took in the graceful curves of a wide staircase that led to the second floor, probably the level on which they would dance. The third-level hurricane deck was open to the sky, limited only by the pilothouse and a pair of tall, black smokestacks that would soon belch smoke, ash, and red-hot cinders.

Mr. Dashiell Champney, a tall, handsome man with dark hair shot through with white, stood next to a much shorter and rounder woman who must be his wife, Gabrielle. Lily waited behind her aunt while she exchanged greetings with their hosts. Then her aunt introduced her. Hoping her skirts showed no tears or dirt from her recent adventure, Lily curtsied deeply. She comforted herself with the thought that Aunt Dahlia’s keen eyes would have spotted any problem. Her exacting aunt would not have hesitated to point out any shortcomings.

“What a charming young woman.” Mr. Champney bowed over her hand. “You look more like your mother than your father.”

Her shocked gaze met his. “You knew my parents?”

Mr. Champney frowned and glanced toward her aunt.

Aunt Dahlia tittered. “Oh, you misunderstand, Monsieur Champney. Phillip and I are not Lily’s parents. Her mother, my sister, died some years ago, and Lily and her two sisters were left with my parents.” She laughed as though her words were humorous. “Of course we consider the girls as dear to us as our own children.”