The Passionate and the Proud (3 page)

Preacher Task was a bit nonplussed; Emmalee did not look like any teacher he had seen before.

“Come with me,” he said. “We shall go to my office.”

Wordlessly, Emmalee followed him across the orphanage grounds. She judged him to be a serious, well-intentioned man, but his personality seemed devoid of spark or fire. So vibrantly alive herself, so responsive to others who shared her spirit, Emmalee felt vaguely sorry for the preacher.

“Sit down, Miss Alden,” he told her when they were inside his office. “I want to discuss your responsibilities with you. I am, you see, placing you in charge of the children’s studies and discipline—”

“But, sir, I am leaving the home. Today is my sixteenth birthday, and—”

“It is?” asked Task, looking perplexed. “No one told me about that. I was counting on you to—”

“I’m sorry, but I’ve already made my plans.”

That was not entirely true, of course. Emmalee’s plans were still indefinite. But she saw that Preacher Task was a stubborn man and that he did not take kindly to the possibility of his own plans being thwarted.

“
I
must sign the papers that approve your leaving,” he pointed out.

“That is true, but I am sixteen now and free to leave.”

The man’s eyes narrowed as he considered this.

“How do you know you’re sixteen?” he asked. “Do you have proof?”

“I was born on April 12, 1852, in Lancaster, Pennsylvania.”

“That’s not proof, is it? Now, if you had a written record of birth from your home parish, or a certificate of baptism, perhaps? You are free, of course, to write for one…”

Emmalee thought of the time that such an exercise would require. She considered too the wagon trains that were now being outfitted to leave St. Joe.

“And where would you go if you left here?” Preacher Task was asking, a grave, concerned expression on his long face.

“There’s going to be a land rush in Olympia,” she answered enthusiastically. “I’m going out there and see if I can stake a claim. That’s what my folks planned to do and—”

“Come now, my dear,” he interrupted gently. “We must all aim high, mustn’t we? But aren’t you being just a tad unrealistic? I can see that you’re a strong, ambitious young woman, but you’ll have to cross the Great Plains with a wagon train, you’ll be in the company of adventurers and charlatans and perhaps even thieves. I’d advise against it.”

Emmalee fumed. What was wrong with being in the company of adventurers? She looked forward to it. But she held her tongue. Preacher Task was obviously not a man who readily countenanced contradiction. She decided to keep her own counsel and make her own plans. She was going to leave the home, no matter how he felt about it, no matter what he said.

“Let us wait until you have your proof of age,” he told her. “Then I’ll help you make a reasonable arrangement for the future.”

Emmalee spent the afternoon mapping strategy. Since she would have to be present for supper, she would not be able to leave until it was almost dark. With neither doubts nor second thoughts, but with a bit of trepidation, she saw herself trudging along a nighttime roadway, maybe catching a few hours of sleep beneath trees. She could not risk asking for shelter in a home anywhere near Cairo, on the chance that Preacher Task would notice her absence and send out some sort of alarm. And she certainly could not spend any of her pathetic little treasury except in a case of dire emergency.

Then, as she was folding and packing her few worn dresses and her pretty white Sunday-go-to-meetin’ dress in the portmanteau Val Jannings had given her for Christmas, Emmalee suddenly thought of a new plan, so obvious that she was amazed it had not occurred to her before.

First she visited the storeroom, where the clothing, toys, and trinkets that had belonged to the children who’d died during the winter were kept. Then, taking thread and needle from her little sewing kit, she sat down on her bunk and set to work. By suppertime Emmalee had completed her task and had hidden her portmanteau in the hayloft above the stable.

She wore her oldest, baggiest, loosest dress to supper, a gray, sacklike garment that might once have been blue. It had two very large pockets that, at the conclusion of the meal, were stuffed with every portion of biscuit, piece of cornbread, or baked potato the children did not eat.

At twilight, when the children were in their beds, Emmalee stole away to the stable, still wearing the gray dress. Poor Peter Weller had not yet been replaced so there was no one hanging around the stable, but she surprised the big Belgian plowhorses, who nickered and stomped nervously until she gave them each a wedge of sweet cornbread from her cache of food. Then she climbed to the hayloft, slipped out of the gray sack, and put on the white go-to-meetin’ dress. But it was no longer the plain, simple garment of prayer and hymn. At cuff and hem and neckline, Emmalee had sewn ruffles fashioned from discarded cloth. A sash made from ribbons she’d been saving encircled her waist, and around her throat she clasped a string of imitation pearls that Tessie Bailey’s mother had once worn. Seen from up close, flaws in her handiwork would not withstand clever scrutiny, but to any casual observer, Emmalee now wore the dress of a lady. Only her footwear would truly give her away: a pair of well-worn slippers. But the ruffles at the hem of her dress hid them adequately, she thought.

The horses were startled again by her billowing garment as Emmalee climbed down the ladder from the loft, and when Emmalee hurried out of the stable she saw Preacher Task poking his long head out of a window to see what the disturbance was.

Damn it
! she thought, walking as fast as she could, lugging her portmanteau down the road toward the river.
Oh, damn it and damn it again
! Task saw my white dress for sure. After a few minutes of running and walking and running again, she stopped for a minute and listened.

Fast footfalls followed her, and an angry cry: “Miss Alden! Miss Alden, you come back! I shall summon the authorities if you don’t come back! I thought the two of us had reached an agreement.”

For just a moment, for the shred of a second, Emmalee considered giving up her flight. After all, it wouldn’t take much more than half a year to get her baptismal certificate from Pennsylvania. She’d have it by October, most likely.
If
mail came through.

But in October, in Olympia, the government would be giving away land.

“I mean to have me a piece of that land!”
she vowed aloud, and began again to run, away from Preacher Task and toward the Mississippi River.

Emmalee had two big advantages in her flight from Preacher Task. In the first place, she was young and fast and sure-footed. She fairly flew along the narrow, steeply inclined streets leading to the wharves, while he hobbled along, hindered by his years. Second, Task was a stranger to Cairo, whereas Emmalee had gone walking and exploring numerous times in the town and along the river.

Still, she was in danger of being caught. Her plan was to inquire along the wharves about the price of a passenger ticket upriver to Hannibal, and to board the boat if she could afford the fare. But making inquiries and finding a northbound steamer would take time. Meanwhile, she would be conspicuous on the wharves. Her newly decorated dress was designed to make her casually acceptable on the deck of a boat, not to conceal her on the rough and brawling docks. With her long hair flowing and the white dress displaying her figure, she had no idea how lovely she looked, nor how out of place.

Cairo, Illinois, was a major riverport, a center of commercial trade and passenger travel. Wharves and warehouses lined the riverbank. Rich, strong smells of merchandise rode the air: tobacco, raw cotton, and hemp; the dusty scent of wheat; bayleaf, pepper, thyme; the strange, sharp odor of kerosene. To this were added the smells of leather and men and horses, and the perfumed fragrances of women aboard the passenger steamers.

One such vessel, the
Queen of Natchez,
was docked at riverside now, and in spite of her haste Emmalee could not but slow down a little to admire it. She had seen it on the river many times before, and she especially enjoyed watching it at night. With three tiers of decks, lighted by multicolored lanterns, it seemed from a distance to be a huge, many-layered birthday cake floating along the Mississippi. The sounds of music rose from the
Queen
on a summer’s night, as did the laughter of men and women at play, it was rumored that even a woman could get a drink of hard liquor on board, and desperate men gambled vast sums with knives in their belts and loaded pistols on the table next to stacks of gold coins and ingeniously marked playing cards. To the more pious of the boys and girls at the Lutheran orphanage, the
Queen of Natchez
seemed sin itself.

Emmalee drew near the
Queen
and halted. Passengers were boarding, their tickets being examined at the foot of the gangway by a uniformed man wearing epaulets and a tiny cap with a polished leather visor. Negro footmen scurried up and down the dock, up and down the gangway, carrying luggage. The boat was getting ready to depart!

Should she attempt to buy a ticket from the man with the little cap? After all, she did have ten dollars and she looked like a legitimate traveler carrying the portmanteau. But the
Queen
was intimidatingly grand. Emmalee hesitated.

“Stop that girl!”

Preacher Task had made his way down the hill now and was trying to hurry through the milling swarm of people on the dock. She caught a momentary glimpse of him—and he of her—but he disappeared behind a horse-drawn lorry. He’d reach her in a minute. There was no time to buy a ticket. She’d have to run, try to find a place to hide. Already she anticipated the humiliation of confronting him there on the crowded wharves.

“Permit me to assist you, miss.”

The voice was resonant and sure, mildly amused. It was a voice of extraordinary character and timbre. Emmalee responded to it as immediately, as directly, as she did to the grip of the strong hand at her elbow.

“Just come with me and you’ll be fine,” the voice advised her then, with just the merest touch of urgency, and Emmalee felt herself moved slowly but deliberately toward the gangway of the
Queen.
She looked up and saw to whom the hand and voice belonged, noting by waning twilight and the flickering lanterns of the boat that she was in the company of an elegant young roughneck. The chiseled, dark planes of his face were strong but not threatening, and his mouth had a self-certainty that hinted of a high-spirited recklessness. Emmalee realized that he was quite young, twenty-one or two, in spite of his expensive dove-gray suit and his fashionable broad-brimmed hat with an odd-looking band of silver pieces around it.

“Who
are
you?” she demanded, trying to pull free of his grasp.

“You’ll never find out if we stop for proper introductions. Your friend back there on the wharf is going to be here in no time. Stop talking and just smile now, all right? We’re going aboard.”

The man reached for her portmanteau and took it from her, guiding her toward the foot of the gangway. Emmalee felt an impulse to spin away from him, to flee. She could have done it, but she realized that, for whatever reasons, he was helping her escape Preacher Task. Besides, what could happen to her on the
Queen,
with all those people around?

“Evenin’, Mr. Landar.” The uniformed official at the gangway grinned. He tipped his shiny-visored cap to Emmalee, studying her with an unsettling frankness. His grin widened. “I see that you…ah, have a companion,” he added, with a leering wink.

“Observant of you, Kuffel.”

Emmalee’s self-appointed rescuer hustled her up the gangway and onto the
Queen.
There, taking her hand, he led her quickly up a staircase to the crowded second deck, at one end of which a small band was playing. Emmalee felt confused and increasingly alarmed. She was trying to sort out the various features of this strange, sudden, and not entirely comfortable experience. The dazzle of the
Queen of Natchez
dulled her senses, as had that big roll of bills in this Mr. Landar’s hand, but she was able to recall quite well the smirking words of the uniformed man at the gangway: “
I see that you…ah, have a companion
.”

Emmalee had
heard
of things like this, of loose women who were used by men for…

That’s not going to happen to me! she vowed.

Landar was standing at the railing, looking down at the dock. He’d positioned Emmalee behind him, and he still held her hand. She tried to yank it free, but his grip tightened and he turned toward her. She could see his face much more clearly here under the lanterns of the second deck. He really was as handsome as she’d thought moments earlier, but his gray eyes did look a little dangerous.

“You can let me go now,” she told him, surprising herself with the calmness in her voice. “I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

He grinned down at her. “I doubt it,” he said, leaning toward her, bringing his face close to hers. She had to tilt her head backward to look up at him. “I doubt it, and by tomorrow morning you’ll realize that meeting me was the best thing that ever happened to you, not to mention the most pleasurable.”

Emmalee’s eyes widened in astonishment at his casual boldness. She was trying to think of something to say, attempting to find words that would smash his outrageous presumption, when a steward walked up to them.

“Your cabin is made up and ready, sir,” he said to this incredible Mr. Landar. “Cabin twelve, deck three. Will there be anything else?”

“Yes.” With a quick motion, he pulled the portmanteau from Emmalee’s hand and gave it to the steward. “Take the lady’s bag up to my cabin.”

The steward gave Emmalee just the tiniest glance of appraisal, then left to do as he was bidden.

Emmalee was still alarmed, but her substantial temper flared. “Who do you think you
are
?” she demanded, pulling her hand out of his grasp.

“Garn Landar,” he replied, with a slow, amused smile. “At your service.” He took off his elegant hat. Those strange silver pieces that made up the hatband glinted in lamplight. He had dark, thick hair, and when he removed his hat a lock fell down across his forehead. He wore high-heeled western boots but even without them he was well over six feet tall. Emmalee sensed a lithe, hard-waisted body beneath his elegant suit, a muscular body, square-shouldered and taut. Leaning over her, he seemed like a sleek animal crouched to pounce. His gray eyes gleamed lazily, crinkled and slightly slanted at the corners. He had straight black brows, a proud nose, and a strong mouth that hinted, when he smiled, of recklessness and a touch of self-indulgence. In spite of his unconscionable behavior, Emmalee felt the presence and attraction of male beauty far more directly than she’d ever felt it before. Such a feeling, in her predicament, was dangerous. She sought refuge in a legitimate, explicable anger.

“Call that steward back immediately!” she ordered Garn Landar. “I want my portmanteau. I wish to leave this boat!”

“But you’ve only just boarded,” he replied, putting his hat back on with an indolent movement of his arm. “We’ll dine, perhaps gamble a bit in the casino, and then go to my cabin. As I said a moment ago, you won’t regret it.”

“You’ll regret it if you continue to speak to me in this manner. I do not wish to be with you. I do not wish to be
here
.” Her anxiety was mounting.

Garn looked faintly puzzled. “A well-dressed lady, alone and carrying baggage on the docks, would seem to be traveling. And no lady should travel alone. I can certainly make your journey safer and much more interesting.”

He winked at her and touched her cheek, an intimate, proprietary gesture that gave Emmalee an unexpected thrill. Because it did, her anger rose still more.

“I am perfectly capable,” she told him, “of getting where I want to go
on my own.
And I assure you that I would
never
countenance a man who approaches a woman the way you have done to me…”

“What?” he asked, laughing aloud. “Most women in my experience have found my forthrightness refreshing. We understand each other from the start. Here,” he added, taking her arm, “let’s have a drink in the lounge and I’ll permit you to get to know me better.”

“I will not…”

Emmalee was about to dash away from him, but suddenly he grabbed her by the arm, spun her around, and turned toward the railing of the
Queen,
looking down at the wharf.

“Let me
go
!”

“Would you be quiet?” he snapped, that rich, melodic voice as sharp as a whiplash now. “Don’t make a scene. I want to hear this.”

He let her go and leaned over the railing. Emmalee caught a glimpse of Preacher Task there on the dock. She ducked behind Garn and peered over his shoulder to find out what was going on.

Preacher Task, in shirt-sleeves, his long, bony arms gesticulating wildly, was speaking to the man in the visored cap.

“…a runaway,” he was screeching, “from the Lutheran home up there on the hill. She would have been wearing a plain white dress, like a dress for church on Sundays. I know she’s down here somewhere. You’ve got to help me find her. I’m afraid for her soul.”

“It ain’t her soul I’d be worried about. Reverend,” came the reply. “Leastways not down here. But I can tell you for sure that not too many a Sunday school girl is gonna be found on the
Queen.
Run along now, we’re about to cast off.”

Greatly relieved, Emmalee saw Preacher Task walk away from the boat, his head moving this way and that, looking, looking.

Garn turned to her then with a rather amazed expression on his tanned face. “You ran away from an
orphanage
?” he asked. “I thought perhaps you were fleeing a bad lover, or even a husband, God forbid. How old are you, anyway?”

“I’m sixteen. And I didn’t run away, not exactly. I was free to leave, but that man wanted me to stay awhile longer.”

“Sixteen?” he asked. She could tell he didn’t believe her.

“It’s true,” she declared. “My name is Emmalee Alden, I’m free, and I’m sixteen years old. My birthday is today.”

Garn’s look softened, and then he said, “Well, happy birthday, Emmalee. We must do something to celebrate.” His voice held no trace of the teasing or irony. In truth, he was amazed and impressed. This beautiful young woman not only talked with spirit, she
had
spirit. He excused himself for misjudging her age—anyone could have made the same mistake—and decided to act like a gentleman.

“Let’s go have dinner, shall we, Emmalee?” he offered politely. “Tell me about yourself, where you’re headed, things like that. I might be able to help.”

But Emmalee, even though free of the threat of Preacher Task, was still furious at Garn for the way he’d approached her.

“Get me my portmanteau!” she snapped, crossing her arms over her breasts and glaring at him. “I’m leaving! I don’t need your help and I don’t want to talk to you anymore. I want to see the captain. I want to get off.”

Then the
Queen
’s big foghorn blasted dolefully and the powerful sternwheel started up, moving the vessel out into the Mississippi’s current. The sudden motion caused Emmalee to sway against Garn. He put out his arms to steady her. She felt again, and against her wishes, the shock of his touch. It seemed to charge her body with a subtle current.

“Too late to get off.” He smiled easily. “You’re a stowaway now. Do you know what happens to them if they’re discovered? Shall we call the captain and find out?”

Damn
! she thought. Trapped. But then she noted that his tone had changed. He was friendly now, even gentle. Don’t relax, she told herself. It’s some sort of trick on his part. He has you captive on the boat. He can afford to be gallant now.

“Well, how about dinner?” he was asking.

Emmalee regarded him warily, calculating. “I’m afraid I’m not hungry,” she said.

“An orphan who’s not hungry? Emmalee, you are even more unusual than I’d already judged you to be. Let’s go to the casino then and do a little gambling.”

He
is
reckless, she thought with disapproval.

“If I had any money,” she told him, “I certainly wouldn’t throw it away.”

Garn just laughed. “I’ll worry about that. You just come along and be my good-luck piece.”

Against her better judgment, Emmalee took Garn Landar’s arm. He couldn’t do anything to her—and she well knew what “anything” encompassed—if they were seated in a crowded gaming room.

They walked along the second deck, which held a restaurant, a lounge with a small dance floor, and the casino. A band in the lounge began to play “Aura Lee,” a ballad from the war years. Men in suits of black velvet with gleaming white collars, in suits of ivory, burgundy, or powder blue rose from deck tables laden with crystal and silver and led to the dance floor splendid, languorous women in gowns of silk and satin and lace. Emmalee, in her homemade garment, felt like a country cousin and stole a glance at her benefactor, who was watching the women dance.
He
could probably have any of those women if he wanted. He might well have had some of them already! She wondered how the other women responded to him, how they answered his frank, good-humored, utterly self-confident propositions. And, without intending to, consciously trying not to, she wondered how those women felt when they were in his arms.