Calico Ball Read online

  Carla Kelly

  Sarah M. Eden

  Kristin Holt

  Copyright © 2018 Mirror Press

  E-book edition

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles. These novels are works of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialog are products of the authors’ imaginations and are not to be construed as real.

  Interior Design by Heather Justesen

  Edited by Haley Swan and Lisa Shepherd

  Cover design by Rachael Anderson

  Cover Photo Credit: Period Images and Deposit Photos #14433931

  Published by Mirror Press, LLC

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  The Keeper of the Western Door by Carla Kelly

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  A Convenient Arrangement by Sarah M. Eden

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  About Sarah M. Eden

  Isabella’s Calico Groom by Kristin Holt

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  About Kristin Holt

  In memory of Henrietta Blueye, who once told me that every girl should have the Radcliffe experience.

  “Remember that some of the greatest needs may be those right in front of you.”

  Bonnie Oscarson

  October 2017

  Blame it on Mrs. O’Leary’s cow, although the jury is still out on the matter, and the cow wasn’t talking. On October 8, 1871, around nine o’clock at night, the unnamed cow kicked over a lantern in the O’Leary’s barn, located on DeKoven Street in Chicago, Illinois.

  The fire spread rapidly through the mostly wooden city, dry from summer drought. After two days and nights, the flames wore themselves out, moving north and helped along by rain. Three hundred people died, with 17,500 buildings burned and 100,000 rendered homeless.

  News of the disaster reached Fort Laramie, Wyoming Territory, via a telegram, which was admittedly brief. Since the Union Pacific Railroad now passed through Cheyenne, 110 miles south, more detailed newspapers made their way to the fort when troopers rode south for mail and supplies.

  “My word, Chicago is suffering,” Mrs. Gertrude Hayes told her husband over breakfast on Officers’ Row one morning in mid October.

  She handed the paper to Captain Hayes, G Troop, Fifth Cavalry. He read it with his porridge. Oatmeal was his least favorite breakfast, but that was the army. There was a current overabundance of oats and raisins in the commissary. Too bad there was never a surplus of eggs.

  When Captain Hayes left for guard mount, Mrs. Hayes began to wonder what to do for Chicago. She knew the city well enough, with its rows of wooden houses, most with shingled or tarred roofs. A woman of some imagination, Gertrude Hayes could picture desperate women fleeing with babes in arms and little more. Newspaper in hand, she walked next door to the post surgeon’s quarters, where she found Mrs. Stanley staring at her newspaper.

  Gertrude plunked herself down. They were friends of great standing, having moved together from garrison to garrison since before the War of the Rebellion. “Augusta, how can we help these pitiful folk?” she asked.

  Augusta Stanley was cut from the same army cloth. “Let’s have fun and do some good at the same time. We should hold a calico ball.”

  “I’ve heard of them,” Mrs. Hayes said. “Heavens, who hasn’t?”

  “Granted, we are pretty small potatoes out here,” Augusta Stanley said (she was regrettably prone to slang). “If every lady made a calico dress and wore it, we could send the dresses to the poor women in Chicago. We should include the sergeants’ wives in this ball.”

  “Would we charge the men one dollar admission?” Mrs. Hayes asked.

  “At least. We can donate refreshments. The regimental band will play.”

  The women looked at each other, thoughtful, because the next matter loomed. Neither was prone to much exertion, and rank did have its privileges.

  “Who should be in charge of this event?”

  “Who is the lowest-ranking lieutenant in the garrison?” Mrs. Stanley asked.

  “Lieutenant Yeatman, I Company, and a bachelor. He won’t do.”

  As the sound of the band faded away, indicating the end of guard mount, Mrs. Stanley and Mrs. Hayes thought a little more.

  “I have it,” Mrs. Hayes declared. “Lieutenant Masterson’s wife. He is my husband’s brand new second lieutenant. I’ll grant you Victoria Masterson is self-centered, but she has what we need.”

  “Come again?”

  “Augusta, think a moment. Can you sew a dress?”

  “Certainly not. That is what the lower orders are for.”

  “Precisely,” Mrs. Hayes said. “Victoria Masterson’s maid—you know, the one with the silly name—is a seamstress without equal. She sews all of Victoria’s clothing, and you know smart she always looks.”

  “Yes, Mary Blue Eye,” Mrs. Stanley said. “My husband says that is a Seneca or Mohawk name. But will she do it?”

  “Of course! It’s time Victoria Masterson learned how things are done in the army. The Blue Eye maid has no choice.”

  Mary Blue Eye was no snob. It was an unlikely title for someone serving as a maid to a friend. To be honest, maybe less of a friend than Mary had thought last summer, when she grudgingly agreed to accompany newly married Victoria Masterson from New York to Fort Laramie.

  Yet here she stood in front of the dining room mirror, staring at a woman sort of tan, with dark hair and eyes. True, she was Seneca, but far superior to the luckless Sioux and Cheyenne lurking around Fort Laramie, begging for handouts. Wasn’t she?

  Sergeant Blade was the only person in the entire garrison who might understand her growing doubts, but he wasn’t available for idle chat. She didn’t even know his first name. She couldn’t ask Victoria’s husband, Lieutenant Silas Masterson, if he could send G Troop’s first sergeant over for cookies and milk when there was nothing better to do.

  The best Mary could hope for was to run into him in the sutler’s store, which so far hadn’t happened. She did enjoy watching the sergeant lead new recruits through the mysteries of equitation on the parade ground. He had a brisk air of command that brooked no disobedience from man or beast. He was also not a man to idle away his time anywhere appropriate for Mary to meet him.

  Not that she ever wanted to recreate the one time when she had him all to herself, albeit briefly. They were a day out of Cheyenne, traveling to Fort Laramie in an army ambulance, which amused Victoria Masterson until she realized it was the common mode of transportation for army dependents, and not as comfortable as her father’s carriage back home.

  They had bumped along over nasty trails, mashed together in the ambulance with the wife of G Troop’s first lieutenant and thei
r three children, the wife growing more irritated with each mile that her darlings were crowded tighter than clams in a basket.

  Ignoring Mary, the woman finally addressed Victoria. “Mrs. Masterson, tell your maid to ride with the baggage so Anthony can stretch out before he pukes.”

  Startled, Victoria had nudged Mary. “Would you mind?”

  “Mind? Mrs. Masterson, she is your servant,” the woman said. “Tell her.”

  Victoria spoke to the driver through the canvas barrier. He stopped his horses, and Mary got out without a word, humiliated.

  Sergeant Blade had been riding beside the ambulance. He dismounted and asked what the problem was.

  “Where’s the baggage wagon?” Mary asked. “Not enough room in here for me.”

  “Lieutenant Caldwell’s wife is not known for tact,” he said as he walked her to a blue-painted wagon with red wheels. “Let me help you up.”

  The help-up meant hands on her waist and a boost that landed her beside the driver, who saluted the sergeant with a casual two fingers to his cap. “I’ll look after her, Sarge.”

  “See that you do,” Sergeant Blade said. Coming out of his mouth, it was no suggestion.

  That was that, almost. The sergeant mounted and rode beside the wagon, pacing his horse. “I’m afraid you have to eat dust back here. I’ll see what I can do.”

  When she didn’t say anything because she was too embarrassed, he side stepped his mount closer to the wagon. “May I help you?” he asked.

  She saw so much concern on his face. She knew there was nothing he could do, but he was kind to say it, and so she told him. He nodded.

  “You’re not used to being a maid, are you?”

  “No, sir,” she said, not sure how to address a sergeant. “I thought I was a friend.”

  She looked away so he wouldn’t see her tears, and he rode to the top of the detail after one backward glance. It was then that she understood something about the army—sergeants were in charge of everyone in the command. The knowledge warmed her heart and made the dust almost bearable.

  They had camped that night beside the Chugwater. Lieutenant Caldwell’s wife had included a cook in her entourage, so the Mastersons fared well enough. Unsure of herself, Mary stood close to Victoria.

  “Should I take a plate?” Mary whispered.

  “I don’t know,” her childhood friend whispered back. “I don’t see any of the other servants eating here.”

  I’m hungry, too, Mary thought. She looked around until she saw another woman who had been riding in the other baggage wagon. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

  She walked to the other campfire and waited there, not sure what to do. The woman glanced at her briefly, then glanced away, hunching her shoulder as if she didn’t want to know her.

  Startled, Mary walked away. If she could find a water barrel, at least there would be something to drink. She remembered longhouse elders smoking their pipes and talking about starvation marches as they fought with the British against the American colonists.

  I should have brought along some pemmican, except I can’t stand pemmican, she thought, which made her smile. I’m a pretty poor Seneca.

  She found a water barrel with a tin cup beside it and dipped herself a drink. She relished the coolness, even though the water tasted of wood, with just a hint of tar, probably from the lining. She rolled it around in her mouth, thinking of Papa and his favorite brandy, an annual Christmas gift from Victoria’s father, Judge Wilkins.

  “I can offer you something better,” she heard behind her, and knew she was about to be cared for.

  Sergeant Blade held out a tin plate with what looked like smashed hardtack. She took the plate, her mouth watering from the bacon that the mangled crackers were cooked in.

  He handed her a fork and indicated a log. She sat down and he joined her. Too shy to speak and hungry, she ate in silence, relishing the odd combination.

  “Why does this taste so good?” she asked, knowing about manners and conversation, and after all, he had found her a meal.

  “One of two things,” he said. “You’re either really hungry, or food cooked over a buffalo chip fire is well . . . uh . . . seasoned.”

  She laughed out loud. “Doesn’t even need pepper.”

  “Good to hear you laugh,” Sergeant Blade said. “You were looking pretty glum earlier.” He was silent for a moment, then, “And I don’t blame you.”

  Her stomach was full. She wasn’t thirsty. The sky had darkened, and Mary felt bold enough to ask the man seated beside her something that had been bothering her since she and Victoria Masterson had seen their first Indians in Nebraska.

  “Sir, do I look like an Indian?”

  She asked it quietly, partly because it seemed like a frivolous question, and partly because she doubted she should even mention the matter.

  “Everyone calls me Sarge,” he told her. “You can too.”

  “Very well.” Maybe he wasn’t going to answer her question.

  “Yes, you do,” he said, “but you don’t. Tell me more.”

  “Are you certain?” she asked, doubtful. Maybe it was time for her to return to the ambulance and see if Victoria needed her for anything. But that would mean walking past the other servant who had turned away, and facing the lieutenant’s wife again.

  “I’m interested. I’ve never met an eastern Indian, if that’s what you are.”

  “I am Seneca,” she told him. “My family is descended from Mary Jemison, a captive who chose to stay with the Keepers of the Western Door. Her second husband was Hiakatoo, a Seneca. Their daughter Jane is my grandmother. We live in a nice house on property belonging to Victo . . . Mrs. Masterson’s father, Judge Wilkins. My mother is his cook, and my father is the judge’s secretary. We’re Methodists.” So maybe I am not much of an Indian, she thought.

  “If I’m not being rude, do most Seneca look like you?” he asked.

  “Some do, some don’t,” she said, hearing nothing in his question but curiosity. “There’s been some marrying back and forth.” She looked toward the other campfire. “I suppose I had better go over there.”

  “Do you want to?”

  That was precisely what she had been asking herself ever since she was evicted from the officers’ ambulance. She glanced at Sergeant Blade and again saw nothing but goodwill in his expression.

  “Part of me does, and part of me doesn’t,” she said, which made him chuckle. “I don’t think I belong in the West, but I promised Mrs. Masterson I would stay for six months, and so I shall. Goodnight, Sergeant.”

  She didn’t ask, but he walked her back to the officers’ campfire. “I’ll tell the teamster to shift around some boxes in the baggage wagon,” he said as they came closer. “Throw your bedroll in there. You’ll be safe, and I won’t worry.”

  “Why would you worry at all?”

  “You’re part of my job, and I like you,” he said simply. “Good night, Miss Blue Eye. Things will go better tomorrow.”

  They didn’t, except that Mary learned something about herself on that last day’s travel to Fort Laramie. She also learned more about Sergeant Blade.

  She had resumed her place in the baggage wagon, seated this time on the open tailgate because it was cooler. To console herself, Mary indulged in a hearty round of self-pity, wondering how soon she could leave. Mama had sent her West with enough money for a return ticket.

  Here she was now, hanging on for dear life to the chain that lowered the gate. Mary hadn’t dangled her feet over the edge of anything in years. She was happy to face away from trail dust and breathe better air.

  She hung on tighter when the wagon began its descent into what was probably a reluctant creek that had been emboldened by a recent series of gully-washing rains. Muddy water swirled around the wheels, and two things happened at once.

  The nearest crate slid off the end of the wagon and pulled her with it, plopping into the water and sucking her down. Frantic, she tried to scream and ended up gargling mud. She bl
oodied her fingers, feeling for a hold on the rough wood of the crate, then forcing her fingers through a small opening.

  Trouble was, the crate held china—she felt sodden newspaper and ceramic—and began to sink as it bumped along. She turned her attention to worming her fingers out of the slat, ready to strike out for the bank. The weight of her dress wore her down, too. Her shoes were already gone, which helped, but the dress was heavy.

  She shrieked when a horse blocked her view, then realized salvation loomed. She yanked her hand free and held it up, to be grasped by Sergeant Blade, who leaned down and grabbed whatever else was handy, which turned out to be her shirtwaist. With no ceremony, he threw her stomach-down over his lap and transferred his spare hand to the back of her skirt, working his gauntleted hand into her waistband.

  “Hang on.”

  To what? she asked herself, then grabbed his leg, which he obligingly raised a little so she could put her forearm between his thigh and the saddle.

  “Damned steep bank,” he muttered, then up they went, after crossing the swollen stream and charging up the other side.

  Safe now, she let him gently lower her to the ground, her sodden dress and petticoats sticking to her, and the buttons gone from her shirtwaist where he had grabbed her. She didn’t care. She was alive.

  She covered her face with her hands. Perhaps it was vestigial memory—heaven knows the Seneca had little to fear recently except prejudice—but her mother had taught her never to cry in times of struggle, never to invite unwelcome sound into any fraught situation. She stood there in silence, alone until Sergeant Blade dismounted and pulled her close.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  She nodded, not all right a bit and wanting her mother in the worst way.