A Most Unsuitable Match Read Free

Walker about the weeds outside, how would she ever face Mr. Vandekamp? To fight off a wave of near panic, she crossed the room and raised the window shades. Sunlight filtered in. These things aren’t Papa’s anymore. They’re mine. She put her hand on the back of the desk chair and pulled it out. Mother couldn’t tell her to get out of her father’s chair now. Nor could she remind Fannie that “a lady doesn’t concern herself with business.”
    Fannie perched on the edge of Papa’s chair, her back straight. Placing both palms atop the desk, she closed her eyes. Are you there, Papa? Do you see me? I’m all alone now. I can stitch the finest sampler in the state, and Jamison Riggs says I dance more gracefully than any of the other girls in St. Charles. I finally learned to play that étude by Mr. Chopin. I played it for Mother before she . . . left. She smiled and said I did a lovely job, and you know that Mother was very hard to please when it came to Monsieur Chopin.
    Fannie opened her eyes. Mother had been hard to please when it came to just about everything. Let Fannie show an interest in anything remotely . . . challenging to her intelligence and Mother got that look on her face as she said, “And how, exactly, would it help a young lady to know about investments ? There isn’t a single acceptable suitor in St. Charles who would find such an interest anything but appalling.”
    Fannie reached for the top envelope on the waiting pile of mail. She supposed Mother was right—for the most part—about what eligible men expected from eligible ladies. Be that as it may, she couldn’t let it stop her from doing what must be done. She was the sole heir of something. It was time she discovered exactly what.
    Fannie perused the contents of the first envelope. She might speak French, but clearly she did not speak Business . Tonnage . . . cargo . . . capstan engine . . . administrator’s sale. The only thing she really understood were the words urgent and projected loss. The dollar amount next to that last phrase was impossible. Wasn’t it? If that number was accurate, her problems with Mr. Vandekamp were much worse than weeds and peeling paint.
    Fannie made her way through the remaining pile of mail, but with each unpaid bill, her spirits lagged. Finally, as the aroma of boiled beef wafted in from the kitchen, memories of Hannah Pike’s creaking knees and the gardener’s woes combined with the words in Papa’s mail to send a frisson of true fear up her spine.

A friend loveth at all times, and a brother is born for adversity.
    P ROVERBS 17:17
    Monday, May 17, 1869
St. Louis, Missouri
    “We’re a full crew,” the grizzled roustabout said, and nearly knocked the carpetbag out of Samuel’s hand as he brushed past, headed for the waiting mountain of cargo. Samuel gazed toward the battered steamboat crowded against the St. Louis levee. The painted letters spelling out Delores had faded to the point that the name was barely legible. Peeling paint made the hurricane deck railing more gray than white, and the hull had obviously had more than one encounter with sandbars and snags. Just about every single steamboat taking on cargo today looked more promising than the Delores . And yet, Samuel knew she was piloted by Otto Busch, and no one knew the river better. Because of Busch, the Delores held the current record for ascending the Missouri to Fort Benton. Over two thousand miles in thirty-two days. Peeling paint didn’t matter. Samuel needed speed.
    Another roustabout—an older, wiry man—hoisted a sack of flour and limped back Samuel’s way. “Heard you asking Isaac about work.” When Samuel looked down at him, the man’s pale blue eyes crinkled at the corners. “Isaac was right, as far as it goes. But I’m thinking any captain worth his salt would at least consider making an exception for someone your size.” He nodded toward the steamboat. “If you’ve got muscles underneath that black coat