River Queen (9 page)

“It’s true, Caesar, there’s barely enough room for me in there, much less any trunks,” Julienne grumbled. “Don’t worry, Caesar, it’s only about ten or twelve hours to New Orleans, they’ll be fine down here for that time.”

“May be a little longer than that,” Dallas said gravely, “but I’ll help you if you need to get some things, maybe rearrange some clothes and put what you’ll need in one of the traveling cases.”

“I don’t know about all that,” Julienne said uncertainly. “Tyla takes care of things like that for me. But she’s sick. I guess, Mr. Bronte, maybe I should get you to help me look in one of my trunks and see if I might need to repack a case for overnight.” She turned to Caesar. “Thank you so much, Caesar, but get home now and get Libby to fix you some nice hot soup. You’re soaked through. Don’t worry, get on now.”

Reluctantly he left, and Julienne turned to the mass of trunks and boxes piled by the door. “So you’re volunteering to help me, Mr. Bronte? I must admit I’ve never had to deal with a problem like this.”

“No, I’m sure you haven’t,” he said dryly. “What I’m going to do is take them over in that corner over there, see? Stack ’em up and secure them with a stout line. They’ll be safe, they won’t take up much room that way, and I can get to them easy if you need to get something out of them.”

“That sounds good, I guess. If you would please take this trunk first, and let me look in it and get some things I may need. So you do think we may be traveling all night?”

“Maybe,” he said. “Depends on the storm. Can’t see a blooming thing when it’s raining steady like this, it’s hard to spot your points and landmarks. A good pilot slows down, a lot, when he can’t see too well.”

Julienne nodded. “Then I’d like to pack a small case for me, and take Tyla’s bag. I think they’ll fit under the bunk, won’t they?”

“Sure.” Gamely Dallas bent and picked up one of the trunks. It was massive, two feet deep, forty inches high, and two feet wide, and it was packed to the brim. With a small grunt he picked it up, walked to the corner, and gently set it down at an exact angle to fit into it.

Julienne admired this obvious show of strength, but she said nothing except, “Would you mind bringing me that small case?” She walked to the trunk, took a key out of her reticule, unlocked it, and opened the top. Dallas stood there holding her small black leather case. He looked down and a delighted grin lit his face. The boyish expression sat oddly on his tough features.

Julienne’s eyes widened. The top of the trunk had a shallow fitting that set on top, divided into compartments. Julienne’s most delicate pantaloons, lacy chemises, satin corsets, and sheer underslips lay in them. She slammed the top back down and stared at Dallas accusingly.

“You weren’t supposed to see those,” she snapped.

“I know,” he said. “But I did. They’re real pretty.”

Julienne’s cheeks flamed. “You—you are so impertinent! How dare you?”

“How dare I what? Say your underthings are pretty? Should I have said they’re ugly?”

“This is not funny,” Julienne said between gritted teeth. “Just secure my trunks as you said, Mr. Bronte.” She whirled and thought she had made a fine, dignified exit, but he called after her.

“Miss Ashby?”

She turned slowly. He stood there, his arms crossed, his chin tilted upward. “I’m not your slave like poor Caesar,” he said. “I don’t even work on this boat. I was just trying to help you out, but I’m not taking orders from you, ma’am.”

Julienne’s eyes narrowed and she drew herself up to her full height. “Excuse me. I thought you were being a gentleman.”

“Maybe if you acted more like a lady, I’d act more like a gentleman,” he drawled.

“Ooh! You’re insufferable!” Julienne almost shouted.

“Okay, then, if you can’t stand me so bad, I guess you don’t want my help. Be seeing you, Miss Ashby.” He turned to walk toward the double doors.

But just before he disappeared Julienne said, “Wait. I mean, please wait, Mr. Bronte.”

“Yes?” he said, turning.

“It seems I require some assistance with my trunks,” she said in the politest tone she could manage. “Would you please help me, sir?”

“I dunno. What about your little French pet he-goat? He gonna show up and try to butt my shins again?” he asked, his strange greenish eyes alight.

Julienne gritted her teeth. “Mr. Etienne Bettencourt is not my—oh, never mind. I’m asking you, as a gentleman, to please render your assistance to a lady.”

“Of course, ma’am.” He went back to the trunk he’d placed, and Julienne thought he was going to lift the top again. She bolted to it and slammed her hand against the top, looking at him accusingly.

“I was just going to see if you locked it back, ma’am,” he said. “Stored down here, it better be locked.”

“Oh. Well. No, I suppose I didn’t. You confused me. Here, I’ll lock it now.” She bent to insert the key and lock the trunk securely again.

Dallas Bronte went to the other trunk, which was slightly smaller, and brought it to the corner. When Julienne finished, he set it on the top of the other one. “It was kinda funny, you know,” he murmured, “you showing me your pretty underthings.”

“It wasn’t. And neither was the pet goat.”

“Yes, it was,” he said, grinning at her.

She looked rebellious, then her mouth twitched. “Maybe. Maybe it was just a little funny. Not very funny.”

“I dunno. Seemed pretty funny to me.”

They argued the entire time as Dallas walked her back to the stateroom. As he left she was still smiling.

AT MIDNIGHT JULIENNE MOST definitely was not smiling. The storm had fought them all evening and night, with great deafening peals of thunder, wild wind, and rain that spattered hard against the shuttered window. The steamer rocked and pitched as the Mississippi River fought the fierce elements.

Still, Julienne was unafraid. She could feel the comforting great
throck, throck
of the sternwheel paddle, steady and secure. The little steamer was tight and well-built, for they had had no leaks, no water sloshing along the decks, not even dribbles from the single window in the stateroom.

But Tyla was deathly ill. Her normal rich cocoa-colored skin looked an unhealthy yellow, and her eyes were dull and feverish. As the night had worn on, she had developed a cough with thick congestion. Her coughing had gagged her, and she had vomited until she could bring up nothing else, but still she heaved. Julienne knelt by her bunk, holding her head, keeping the two blankets tucked securely around her. Tyla had grasped her hand in a death grip, gasping that she was scared they were going to wreck, that the storm would kill them. Julienne held her hand and stroked it, telling her in a soothing, soft voice that the boat was fine, that Tyla was just imagining things because she was ill, that Julienne would take care of her and not let anything happen to her. Finally Tyla had fallen back, seemingly senseless.

Julienne continued to kneel by her and hold her hand, and she felt it grow hot. She pressed her wrist against Tyla’s forehead. Tyla was going into a fever.
This isn’t seasickness,
Julienne thought uneasily.
I wonder if she’s got the influenza? Oh, Lord, no, please not that!

Influenza had spread among the field hands at Ashby Plantation, and three men, eight women, and eleven children had died. That was why her father had been spending so much time there the last weeks. Aunt Leah, insisting it was her Christian duty, often went out to the plantation with him, nursing the sick men, women, and children. As Julienne thought of this, she wondered if Tyla had gone to the plantation too. It occurred to her that she knew very little about Tyla, that she really had no idea what she did when she wasn’t waiting on Julienne.

Tyla opened her eyes, and Julienne saw that tears welled up in them. “No, no, please don’t cry, Tyla. If you cry I’ll cry and you know how much I hate to cry. It makes your eyes red, like a Saturday night drunk.”

Tyla managed a weak smile. “I know you’re no Saturday night drunk, Miss Julienne. You never could be, you’re too strong for such nonsense. I just feel so bad, so awful, being so helpless. I’m so sorry, Miss Julienne, I’m ashamed for you to have to take care of me like this.”

“No, no! Don’t!” Julienne said harshly. “How many times have you taken care of me, Tyla? All of my life. That’s how much you’ve helped me. So stop it, stop apologizing, it’s embarrassing me. I thought you were crying because you were still scared. Are you, Tyla?”

She sighed, a weak shuddering intake of breath. “I was awfully scared, yes. But I’ve been praying, and I feel the Lord’s presence real close to me now. Who could be afraid when the God of all the earth is holding your hand? Who could fear when the Lord Jesus whispers comfort to you?
Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him . . .”

Julienne didn’t know that verse. She thought that Tyla was just delirious with fever. She watched her for long moments and saw that her chest rose and fell rhythmically, and felt some of the heat lessen in Tyla’s hand. Wearily Julienne laid her head down on their clasped hands and fell into an uneasy doze.

She awoke with a start, unable to tell how much time had passed. Tyla slept peacefully, and her forehead felt a little cooler, Julienne thought. Gently untangling her hand, she stood. Or at least she tried to. She had been in an awful position, for how long now she had no idea, seated on the floor with her legs tucked under her. When she straightened them, sharp jolts of pain shot all the way up to her hips, and she would have groaned except she was afraid that she would awaken Tyla. Like a frail old woman that has fallen, she slowly pulled herself up by the bedpost. It seemed to take a long time. Then she threw her head back, massaged her burning, aching neck, and tried to straighten her back to work out the spasms.

It was only then that she noticed that it had stopped raining. The wind still groaned and beat against the wooden shutter, and long deep rolls of thunder sounded ominously. She threw open the shutter and then she saw the lightning, far off now, but splintering the sky continuously. There was a storm ahead of them, all right, but Julienne didn’t know if the one they had been in had passed over, or if this was more of Nature’s fury ahead.

The sharp cool wind blew through the stateroom, and Julienne realized how stuffy and close the room had become. And it stank of illness. Reluctantly Julienne regarded the bucket in the corner, the only bathroom facility available on the
Missouri Dream
, apparently. Because Tyla had been so ill it was almost full.

No, I can’t. I won’t. I don’t have to do things like that,
she thought with a sudden ugly burst of anger.

But Julienne had a streak of practicality, and though she was shallow she was not a weak woman. She was strong, and right then she realized that not only could she do this chore, but she should do it. Besides, she really did want to walk, to move around, to get some blood moving back in her half-paralyzed limbs. With dark amusement she realized that she still wore her hoop skirt. It was even wider than the space between the chest and the bunks. Yanking up her heavy skirts, she untied the steel cage and dropped it, kicking it carelessly under the bunk. Because the air had been chilly, and the wind strong, she decided to wear her cloak and pulled it on quickly. Then she put the top on the bucket securely, picked it up, and gave Tyla a quick cautious look.

She slept quietly, and in the dim light Julienne even thought she saw a small smile on the girl’s face. She breathed deeply and evenly. Julienne slipped outside and walked quietly down the hall. She went up the staircase that led up to the hurricane deck, but to her disgust she couldn’t lift the hatch. Either she wasn’t strong enough, or it was locked. Climbing back down, she went down the narrow hallway outside the staterooms, carrying her stinking bucket.

“How do people do things like this?” she muttered to herself. “Why isn’t there at least one sanitary room? Or maybe there is, and I just don’t know where it is. This is so stupid!”

At last she reached the end of the hall, and the door that led out to the stairwell going down to the main deck. As she opened it the wind shrieked wildly and threw it open, banging against the wall. Julienne struggled to close it behind her. As soon as she was out on the stairs, she leaned over the railing, judging the wind, and when there was a lull she quickly emptied the bucket over the side. With relief she snapped the top back on and set it down just inside the stairwell door. She wanted to walk, to stay outside and breathe in some of the cold clean air.

Her heavy cloak flapping about her, she made her way down the stairs and to the main deck. She stood by the ornamental railing, holding onto it securely, trying to make sense of the wild night. Low black clouds scudded by, veiling the stars and an uncaring cold white half moon. Lightning still raged ahead of them, and the far-off thunder never stopped. She looked down, and the river was a raging black torrent. Instead of the ship steaming along it, Julienne thought it was more like it was riding a dangerous runaway horse.

A shadow loomed beside her, and Dallas Bronte said, “Good evening, Miss Ashby. Hope I didn’t scare you, I tried to make noise walking up but you probably couldn’t hear it with all this racket out here.”