The Arctic Fury Page 6

  “Yes.”

  “In the Arctic?”

  “Well, not precisely there, no.”

  Ebba said, “Then why should we trust you?”

  Virginia’s warm brown gaze, settling on Ebba, became slightly less warm. “Because if you want to look for your husbands, I’m the best chance you’ve got. Good luck getting any other expedition to take a chance on women. Our journey will include time aboard ship, and from what I hear, our kind aren’t generally welcome there. Am I right?”

  Both of the wives nodded solemnly. They knew men of the sea by long association. A sailor’s superstitions were as fierce and bright as winter sun.

  As Virginia went on, Ebba saw a change come over her, her gaze shifting again. This time, it burned bright. Virginia had entered the room looking like a girl of little import, but in less than a minute, she’d transformed into an assured, capable woman. Perhaps she was their true leader after all.

  “I’ve been told to bring you along,” said Virginia. “And so I will. But I’ve already had an unpleasant conversation on this topic today, and I feel it’s important to speak plainly. I trust you’ll agree.”

  Althea opened her mouth to protest, but she and Ebba exchanged a glance, and she shut her mouth again. Let’s hear it, then, read Ebba in her eyes.

  Virginia said, her voice clear and urgent, “This journey will be hard and unpleasant at best. If you believe you can undertake it, I trust you; I have faith that you know your own body and mind. But the Arctic does not want us there, and the men we meet won’t either. So by all means, if this isn’t a trip you are eager to make, do us all a favor and don’t make it.”

  That was the moment Ebba decided she would follow Virginia Reeve anywhere.

  Chapter Nine

  Virginia

  American House, Boston

  April 1853

  Regrets and worries swam through Virginia’s mind as she walked back toward her hotel, the late afternoon light cool on her face as evening approached. The sky was clear yet the air felt heavy, as if threatening rain. She reminded herself to soak up what warmth there was while she still could. Even June in the North would be far colder. Yet today’s chill seemed to settle deep into her core. Low spirits, she told herself, let it in.

  Why had she agreed to take on this far-fetched, wild enterprise? She’d led countless women and men through the wilderness, yes, but that was a wilderness she knew and not women like these women. The well-off did not board wagon trains in hopes of a new, better life. They already had the life they needed. Perhaps Ebba and Althea were crafted of steel underneath, but at this first meeting, they looked like a pair of matched dolls in their fripperies, Althea the fair English rose, Ebba a porcelain-skinned brunette. An expedition like this had no need of decoration. And that awful Caprice Collins. Trouble from the first word. If she and the rich girl sniped and poked at each other even in the calm peace of an overstuffed parlor, how fiercely would their tempers flare when things got rough?

  But these three were part and parcel of the deal, and Virginia knew that if she presented an ultimatum to Lady Franklin—or to Brooks, she supposed, all she was allowed—she’d be out on her ear. Women as qualified as Virginia to lead the party were no doubt rare, but she was not irreplaceable. Caprice’s family’s money, on the other hand, was harder to come by. And then there were the officers’ wives, younger versions of Lady Franklin herself: tied up in knots waiting for absent husbands, unable to go on without answers. What aging woman would not choose a younger version of herself to represent her on a journey she could no longer take?

  When Virginia arrived back at her hotel at last, she found a parcel waiting for her, and she could barely restrain herself from grabbing it out of the desk clerk’s hands. Brooks had promised her files on the other members of the party, along with the logistical arrangements, and here they were. She would not meet the other women in person before they gathered in Buffalo to board the canoes for Sault Ste. Marie. A little worry mixed in with the excitement. What if Brooks and Lady Franklin had chosen wrong? What if she was being loaded up with millstones, incompetents, charlatans? Of course they would not do so intentionally, but without the proper care, they could easily have done so by accident. It sounded like most of the other women had been found strictly by correspondence, placing discreet advertisements in frontier cities and combing local newspapers for figures of interest, and there was certainly room for error in that technique.

  Virginia took the parcel to her room, opened it, and spread the contents out on the sitting room’s low table.

  To be contrary, she did not look through the files of the women first but the arrangements that had been made for their transport. The voyageurs who would meet them at Buffalo were led by a man named Thibodeau, and the Doris, the topsail schooner that would take them up the west side of Hudson Bay, was captained by a Jacob Malcolm. There was no further information on either man, just their names, and in Thibodeau’s case, not even his Christian name. Virginia had a moment of panic. Would there be more information in the files of the women she’d be leading?

  She set aside the sheaf of papers in her hand and reached for the women’s files, skipping the list at the front, relishing the shimmer of excitement in her veins as she plucked the first sheet from the folder and began to read.

  Dove, the paper said at the top, and in reading, it became clear that this was intended to be the woman’s name. There was no information on where this Dove was originally from or the life she’d lived before 1840, but in that year, she had joined the camp followers tracking the American army on the Mexican border. Her husband was a soldier. When that husband was killed in action, she married another.

  Funny, thought Virginia, how decisions that must have been devastating at the time could be rendered in prose as merely factual.

  The file went on to note in dry, spare terms the heroism Dove had demonstrated: initially hired as a cook, she began to nurse the wounded, even rushing onto the battlefield to retrieve injured men before their wounds bled them dry, even when gunfire still rang through the air. By whatever miracle, she’d survived and taught nurse craft to other women. Then, for whatever reason, she’d left the second husband. Of her life since then, the file gave no more detail. She sounded like a formidable creature, this Dove, thought Virginia, despite her delicate name.

  There was no likeness of Dove, but a brief physical description was included: nearly six feet in height, taller than most men Virginia knew. Dark hair, dark eyes, tawny skin. Certainly, thought Virginia, she’d know Dove when she saw her. Surely not every woman would be so distinctive, but still, the descriptions would help when they met up in Buffalo.

  In addition to the battlefield nurse, whose expertise would certainly come in handy, the party would also include a journalist, who would record the women’s exploits, and an illustrator, who would help gather information about the landscape and flora of the Arctic wilds. These women were both residents of Massachusetts, though not Boston, and their names were Margaret and Christabel. Virginia wondered if they were durable enough for the trip. Could the same fingers that gripped a pen or sketched a scene also pull back a drawstring? Or a trigger? It would be essential for them to hunt their own food once they entered the sledge portion of the journey. There was no doubt in her mind that Dove knew how to fire a gun—her skills were probably superior to Virginia’s—but the others’ abilities were far less certain.

  Did any of these women really know what they were getting into? Some had been recruited, others had volunteered, but most had only corresponded with Brooks by letter, a slow and imperfect method of communication. What would she do if someone decided partway through that she simply could not go forward? There had been few options for women like that along the Western route to California. Virginia had generally been able to cajole them forward or, when worse came to worst, demand that their families carry them on by whatever means necessary. There w
ere no forts between Fort Bridger and Sutter’s Fort, and only Mormons felt welcome at the new settlement, Great Salt Lake City, on the shores of the lake from which it took its name. Where they were going now, options would be even more scarce. She doubted there were many havens in the Arctic for women who did not want to be in the Arctic any longer, besides the grave.

  She turned her attention back to the files. Who else would she have with her, and what, if anything, could they do?

  While her name had been on the list at the front of the stack of papers, she was surprised—and perhaps a little disappointed—that her own file was one mere scrap of paper. She would have liked to know the entirety of what they knew of her. Instead, there was only the newspaper article, exactly the one she expected to see, with her name circled. Even now, she was not sure whether to be angry at that girl reporter or grateful. Could she have just retreated from the world after Ames’s death? Would she have gone back to her family, reconciled with them? Perhaps. She had to pull herself back from wondering.

  She flipped over the article with her name on it and read on.

  Next, she read with curiosity about Irene Chartier, a woman who by all rights was more qualified for the expedition than Virginia herself: she had lived for ten years in the Canadian territories, frequently journeying into the wilds with her trapper husband, and she was familiar with the languages of several groups of Esquimaux. Virginia wondered why the role of leader hadn’t been extended to Irene. Or perhaps it had, and for whatever reason, the woman had refused? It seemed Irene could become a powerful ally—or, if she chose, an enemy.

  The last file was for an Ann Montgomery, and her biography was brief: Ann lived on a farm in northern Michigan and had made quite a name for herself breeding, raising, and training sled dogs. You don’t need to know nothing else about me, she was quoted as saying in her local newspaper. Nothing else to know but the dogs, and they’re the best dogs on the continent bar none. That, you can print. Virginia could not mistake her importance. Some overland journeys in the Arctic used man-hauled sledges, and others used dogs, and it seemed the women’s expedition would be at least partially dog-powered. They would need Ann’s expertise to keep them going.

  That was it. Nine women, nine files.

  But then, as she flipped the pile over and looked back at the first sheet, Virginia noted something curious: the ghosts of each of their names. As if another piece of paper had been overlaid on this one, a list written on it in a firm hand, and then that piece of paper removed, leaving the hard-pressed marks of each letter behind. A faint set of impressions echoed the one in ink.

  Only on the ghost list, there were ten names instead of nine, with a single line struck through the very last one.

  Margaret Bridges

  Irene Chartier

  Caprice Collins

  Dove

  Ebba Green

  Christabel Jones

  Ann Montgomery

  Althea Porter

  Virginia Reeve*

  Dorothea Roset

  Immediately, Virginia stood.

  This Roset woman had clearly been considered as a potential member of the expedition but had been removed from consideration. Why? Was that why Virginia was invited to bring three choices of her own—because several had been struck from the list at the last minute? Brooks had made it sound flattering, the idea that they’d left some room for her to choose her own lieutenants, but when she thought about it, that couldn’t really be the reason. It had taken months to get Virginia here. They must have known that anyone she’d had experience working with would still be out in California, a continent away.

  Was it a trap, this open invitation to recruit just a handful of expedition participants? Did they want her to fail so they could then add three other women to the roster? But what sense did that make? They could have already added them, presented her with a list of eleven, and been done with it.

  Or had they simply found the only women they could—the handful of fierce women who didn’t give a fig for society’s expectations, the ones whose love of adventure outweighed their desire for safety—and come up short of what they’d hoped?

  Wasting her time guessing wasn’t going to get her anywhere. But she had another, better idea.

  Virginia buttoned her collar all the way up, tugged on her only pair of gloves, and went downstairs.

  “I’m wondering if you can help me with a particular errand,” she said to the man behind the front desk.

  “It would certainly be my pleasure to try.”

  “I’m in search of a family friend who lives nearby,” she said, “though we lost touch some years ago. While I am staying here, I thought I might try to reach out.”

  “Sounds like a good course of action. How can I help?”

  “The family name is Roset. Unusual enough, I think, in this area. Would you know any families by that name?” She knew there was only a small chance the woman was in Boston, but that was no reason not to try.

  “Roset, hmm,” said the clerk at the front desk, taking only a brief pause before he spoke again. “My apologies, miss. The name is not familiar to me.”

  More questions were already bubbling up in Virginia’s mind—what should she try next?—when she heard a higher voice speaking from behind her shoulder.

  “Could be that mapmaker’s shop down on Harbor,” piped a woman’s voice.

  Virginia and the man behind the desk both turned. There stood the dark-haired attendant from the ladies’ ordinary, a men’s wool coat, unbuttoned, pulled over her uniform. Her head was cocked with interest.

  “Miss Thisbe,” said the clerk sharply, “you have been repeatedly asked not to speak to the guests outside the ordinary. As a matter of fact, you should not be using this entrance.”

  “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Davenport,” she said in a tone that made it clear, at least to Virginia, that she was not. “You can absolutely count on me to obey that stricture in future. However, in this case, I believe I can be of assistance to one of the hotel’s treasured guests.”

  The man’s face remained skeptical.

  Moving quickly, Virginia said, “Thank you, sir. We’ll be quick to take our conversation elsewhere.” Then she reached out for Thisbe’s elbow and guided her, unhurriedly but firmly, into the hallway where the entrance to the ordinary was located.

  Thisbe’s gaze was sharp and watchful, intelligence shining in her eyes. Virginia suspected the girl was probably bound for far grander things than a ladies’ ordinary. If she’d been a man, she’d have had a desk at a trader’s already and a far finer coat than the patched hand-me-down she currently wore.

  In a weary voice, Thisbe said, “Well, that tears it. I’m not long for this position, a blind man could see.”

  “I didn’t mean to—”

  “You didn’t,” said the dark-haired woman, wrapping her arms around herself as if even the big coat, even indoors, wasn’t enough to keep her warm. Away from the punctilious desk clerk, everything changed about her: the way she stood, breathed, spoke. “I do it to myself. I really can’t help it.”

  “I’m sorry,” Virginia said, not knowing what else to say.

  “In any case. Roset. Near the wharf, on Harbor, there’s a mapmaker’s shop with that name. I pass it every week after the fish market. May be nothing at all, but it could be what you’re looking for. All right?”

  “Thank you so much,” said Virginia. Upon reflection, she reached into her small purse and drew out a coin, which she extended to Thisbe as she’d seen others do it: fingers down as if pinching the metal, curled in slightly, the coin itself discreetly kept down out of the light to avoid drawing attention.

  Thisbe looked down at the coin and drew back as if Virginia were trying to hand her a live scorpion.

  “I didn’t tell you that for a tip,” she fairly hissed. “I did it to help. Believe it or not, even girls who
work in ordinaries don’t make all their decisions based on who might cast a dirty coin into their hungry hands.”

  Virginia didn’t want to apologize again, so instead she said, “Well, I do appreciate the information. I’ll be on my way, then.”

  She tucked the coin back in her purse when she went. The last thing she saw before she turned away was a flash of disappointment in Thisbe’s eyes. She knew what it was like, to be offended by something you saw as charity but still to need that charity and feel the lack when it was withdrawn. Perhaps she should have pressed the coin into Thisbe’s hand. Insisted. But she didn’t care to repeat the rejection. Besides, now that she had a mystery to solve, she’d best be on her way.

  She stopped for a brief consultation with the man at the front desk again. He was more than happy to direct her to Harbor Street and more than happy to take her proffered coin without objection.

  Down she went to the docks, the chill reaching deep into her bones again, as if to warn her what she was in for. But her whole body was also fairly humming with excitement. The more she learned about the other women who would be on the expedition, the more she wanted to know. What must the journalist have reported on, far and wide? How had the translator learned and used her languages? And that battlefield nurse, the one whose husbands had both fought on the Mexican front, she must have hair-raising stories to tell.

  Virginia allowed herself a brief fantasy of these women’s faces in the firelight, gathered on the bank of a river after a long day’s canoe travel, listening with rapt attention to one another’s exploits. A party like that, there’d never been its equal anywhere in the world. And she would be there, at its head. It was almost unbelievable. The potential of a thousand sunrises lived in that almost.

  When she saw the mapmaker’s shop, Roset in large gold letters on its black-painted sign, Virginia shook out her arms until her fingertips tingled. Then she swung open the door and walked in.