Woman of Three Worlds (11 page)

Mrs. Shaw laughed and raised a quizzical eyebrow. “What will Lieutenant O'Shea say about that?”

“Maybe he'll help.”

After a surprised look, Mrs. Shaw nodded. “Maybe he will.”

They said their good-byes, but as Brittany turned to go, Jody wouldn't release her. “Oh dear!” said Mrs. Shaw and called toward the kitchen. “Marie, will you please bring Jody some cookies and sarsaparilla?”

Jody accepted the plump raisin cookies, but he kept a tight grip on Brittany's fingers as he munched watchfully. He gulped down the drink too without relinquishing his grasp.

“I wish I could take him home,” Brittany said. “But there really isn't room.” And if there were, Regina would still have fits.

Mrs. Shaw said regretfully, “The colonel and I haven't been able to win Jody. I'm afraid we're too old for him to be happy or at ease with us.” She hesitated. “I'd like to invite you to stay here, but that would be rather delicate.”

It would indeed. A discontented wife could sap a man's spirit, and Mrs. Shaw's most important duty was to keep peace in her official family. Jody's desperate clinging had set Brittany to thinking, though, and she made a sudden but wholehearted decision.

“Mrs. Shaw, one of the laundresses' quarters is empty since Mrs. Stroud died. If the colonel could appoint me in her place, I could earn my own living and keep Jody with me.” As Mrs. Shaw stared, Brittany went on hastily, “I—I haven't been that successful with teaching Ned and Angela, and we're badly crowded. If I could repay my cousin for my stage fare, she might be glad to have me out of the house. Do—do you suppose I might borrow from you and pay back the loan from my laundress's salary?”

“My dear, that's hard work! It'll ruin your hands and—”

Now that she'd seen a way out of being Regina's unpaid servant, Brittany realized how thoroughly she had loathed the situation. She could have put up with having not even a cubbyhole of her own, but to be at Regina's capricious beck and call and to spend hours trying to interest her reluctant small cousins while there was not a wisp of love or fun in those cramped quarters—

“Please, Mrs. Shaw!” Brittany drew the child in front of her. “Neither of us belongs on Officers' Row. I don't mind the work. It'll be wonderful to have a place of my own.”

“Perhaps you should think it over,” Mrs. Shaw suggested.

Brittany smiled down at Jody. “I can't stay at Regina's with him hanging on to me.”

Mrs. Shaw smiled. “All right, my dear, I think you've decided. I'll send our striker with you to help you move, and I'll go right now to the colonel and get you assigned to the Stroud quarters. How much do you owe your cousin?”

She supplied the money from a small drawer in an antique secretary. Then she walked briskly off to headquarters while Brittany, with big, slow-moving Private Dowd, the Shaws' striker, marched toward her interview with Regina.

It was short and even more than predictably acrimonious, for Ned and Angela had rushed home to say that Jody had attacked them with a rock and when they'd protected themselves, Cousin Brittany had jerked them around and hurt them.

When Regina's first storm ended, Brittany said quietly, “Ned was in a bunch of boys who were abusing Jody, and Angela was cheering them on. They both need whipping. But how you rear them is no longer any concern of mine. Here's my stage fare. If I may pack my valise, I'll get out of your way.”

“Don't you bring that filthy little beast in here!”

“Then maybe you'd be good enough to hand my things out?”

“It'll be a pleasure! Why I ever thought someone out of the swamps could fit in my home, tutor my children—You—you and that savage belong together!”

Regina came back with the valise, into which she had stuffed Brittany's clothes in the way most apt to wrinkle them. Almost tossing it at her, she said haughtily, “When you tire of your washboard, don't come crawling to me! I no longer consider you my kinswoman.”

Brittany wished she could say the same, but in her opinion, blood relationship couldn't be altered. “I'm sorry it didn't work out,” she said as Dowd picked up the valise.

Regina sneered. “No doubt you can marry an enlisted man. You can be sure Lieutenant O'Shea won't seek you out over on Soapsuds Row—or if he does, it will be with intentions suitable to your choice.”

Some devil made Brittany retort, “Zach Tyrell's no officer. I daresay he'll come to see me.”

She drew a primitive, unholy joy from the jealous blaze in Regjna's cat eyes. “You slut! That's why you're moving, isn't it? The Apache brat's just a screen to get the Shaws on your side!”

“Think what you want to,” Brittany shrugged.

Hand in hand with Jody, she gladly left Officers' Row and started down the road that twisted to the adobes occupied by laundresses and other civilian employees of the post, mostly muleskinners and blacksmiths.

Corporal Stroud had moved back to barracks. He or the other laundresses had tidied the single room, though a packed earth floor didn't need much cleaning. A table, two chairs, washstand, chest of drawers, and cord bed with a grass-filled tick were the furnishings.

“You'll share the kitchen with the other laundresses,” Private Dowd explained. “I'll fetch bedding from the quartermaster. The boy'll need a cot, and I'll draw you a few days' rations.”

Before he could return with these necessaries, Mrs. Shaw arrived, followed by one of Mr. DeLong's assistants, trundling a wheelbarrow. As he unloaded everything from food to curtain material and a coal-oil lamp, Mrs. Shaw cut off Brittany's protest.

“Nonsense, dear. The colonel and I are responsible for Jody's expenses.” She glanced around the spartan room. “You're sure you want to go through with it?”

“Oh, yes!” said Brittany with fervor. “It's going to be wonderful to have my own place again.”

“Then,” said Mrs. Shaw with a twinkle, “I'm empowered by my husband to inform you that you've been appointed a company laundress and are entitled to quarters, rations, fuel, medical services, and transport if the company is transferred. You also will receive three dollars a month from the pay of each enlisted man whose washing you do.”

For the first time Brittany confronted the reality of her new life. Visions of vast heaps of dirty socks, underwear, and clothing rose before her. “How many men will I wash for?” she asked.

“Laundresses are appointed in the ratio of one per nineteen and a half men,” chuckled Mrs. Shaw. “If you can't keep up with that at first, I'm sure Mrs. O'Malley would do some of yours. After all, she'd get their money—which, by the way, you're sure to get, since it's deducted at the pay table.”

Dowd came with a cot, bedding, beans, beef, hardtack, dessicated vegetables, bacon, and such items as flour, salt, and coffee. Mrs. Shaw sent him after Jody's things and looked searchingly at Brittany before she gave a smiling nod. “Good luck, my dear. I hope you'll bring Jody to see me now and then. Let me know if you have any problems.”

She was gone with a gentle rustle of skirts. Left alone, Brittany took a deep breath and sat down, smiling at Jody, who watched her cautiously for a moment and then, slowly, grinned from ear to ear. Only now did his small hand begin to relax.

“We're home, Jody,” Brittany said. She gestured around the room and back to them. “You and I. Home.”

Pushing his tongue against the word as if it were something he could taste, he said, “Home!”

And let go of her hand.

VIII

Dowd brought extra shirts, pants, socks, and underwear for Jody, toothbrush and comb, towels and washcloths. “He carried on so when we tried to cut his hair that Mrs. Shaw said to let it go for a while,” the big striker said. “Holler or not, he's had his head washed till I'd reckon all the nits are gone, but it won't hurt to keep an eye out.” He gazed at Brittany between disapproval and wonder. “If he gives you the slip and runs off, don't feel too bad. He'd probably keep alive on roots and bugs till he found his people or they chanced on to him.”

Jody showed no inclination to go anywhere but watched Brittany put his things in the lower drawers, hers in the top, and hang her few gowns on pegs. The Bible and Lear went on top of the chest and they were moved in. It remained to store their rations in the shared kitchen. Indicating to Jody that he could help her, Brittany picked up a load of staples and opened the door.

Bridget O'Malley was building a fire in the iron cookstove. Satisfied that it was going, she put the lid in place and gave Brittany a wary appraisal with those remarkably beautiful violet eyes. Her glance flicked to Jody, who stood clutching a slab of somewhat moldy bacon.

“Why are you doing this?” she demanded. “I seen you at the dance with that handsome lieutenant and you be that stuck-up Mrs. Graves' cousin. I bet you never used a washboard in your life!”

“You're wrong there,” said Brittany cheerfully. “I've helped with laundry ever since I was big enough not to fall into the tub. My cousin and I don't get along too well. I decided I'd rather be under my own roof.”

“Doing troopers' laundry? A lady like you?”

Brittany shrugged. “It's honest work.”

“But this Apache kid—”

“He got hold of me and wouldn't let go.”

Examining the boy curiously, Bridget said in surprise, “Why, he's a cute little guy, ain't he? Not even very dark-skinned. Those big, melting eyes sort of get at you.” She laughed suddenly, good-natured lines forming at the corners of her shrewd eyes. “It's all over the post how you broke up that dogpile he was under, and there's some as is mad. But hell's sweet bells, this tyke's no monster. He's just a boy.”

“That's what I thought.” Brittany was relieved. Sharing quarters with hostile neighbors could be nearly as bad as living with Regina.

Bridget filled a teakettle from the water barrel and set it on. “You don't have to worry about Nan and Shelly and Lillian. They're the other laundresses and have quarters here. Lillian's married to Sergeant Clough. They'll take my word that you're on the square with this and not just playing fancy tricks.”

“I'll appreciate that.” Brittany still held rice, flour, and coffee, wondering where to put them. Bridget took them and stowed them on shelves and in a rough cabinet.

“What all of us do is take turns cooking breakfast and supper and turns in doing the dishes. You rather take care of yourself and the lad or join us?”

“If the others don't mind, we'll take our turn cooking and eat with you.”

“They won't mind,” Bridget promised. “Not after I have a word with them. And my Patrick, he loves kids. Won't take him long to let anyone who grumbles know that we're all taking an interest in this boy!”

Brittany sighed with relief. “That'll help more than anything I can do.”

“Sure it will.” Bridget patted her arm. “It's going to be just fine. But”—she winked—“I'd reckon when Lieutenant O'Shea gets back, he may not let you stay here long.”

All the women ranged about the table that evening looked strong, though Lillian Clough was rawboned and tall, like her balding husband, and Nan Tedricks and Shelly Boudreau were on the chubby side, Nan with quantities of yellow-brown hair the color of her eyes and Shelly having gray streaks in her black twist of curls.

She had been married four times and was at present considering the merits of several noncommissioned officers, though, as she proclaimed to the table, “It be restful not to have a man mucking about.”

Dark-haired, burly Patrick O'Malley snorted. “Now, Mrs. Boudreau, we been through this several times with different dear deceased! It won't be a month till you're sayin' how lonely you be!”

“And then I'll get married,” she returned in perfect good humor.

After uneasy mealtimes at the Graveses', often marred by Regina's discontent or the children quarreling, Brittany relished the friendly bantering. Jody was nervous at first, especially when the uniformed men spoke to him, but now, as he sat between Bridget and Brittany, his brightly alert gaze went from speaker to speaker and he began to laugh when the others did, though he couldn't have understood much of what was said.

The food was plentiful: tough beef and gravy, beans, dried vegetables stewed with rice, and bread from the post bakery. When Brittany doubted that Jody should have a mug of strong coffee, Patrick won the boy by saying heartily, “Sure, Miss Laird, the tyke needs coffee! But we'll make it half with canned milk and lots of sugar.”

He added these so liberally that Jody's eyes widened in astounded delight, but it was when Bridget placed an immense hunk of dried apple pie before him that he utterly succumbed and lost his fear. The Shaws had no doubt set a more luxurious table, but it was easy to imagine how frightened and upset the child had been in those surroundings.

After supper Brittany insisted on helping with the dishes. Jody sat entranced at Patrick's puffs from his pipe, so Patrick got out his penknife and whittled out a corncob for the boy.

“You're too young for the smoke, lad,” said the corporal. “But you can make believe.”

When Jody curled up that night on his cot, he had the pipe clutched proudly in his hand.

After a breakfast of flapjacks and bacon the laundresses went to their work in the washhouse, located behind the massive cavalry barracks. The bereaved bugler had given his wife's tubs and washboard to Bridget, who'd been her best friend, and Bridget told Brittany she was welcome to them.

“It hasn't rained for a long time and water's scarce,” the older woman warned. “We're not boiling the white things, and nothing gets more'n one rinse.” She nodded at the other room in the adobe building. “That's the bathhouse, but no one can have a full bath till it rains and puts more water in the spring.”