Fortune's Journey Read Free Page B

scarcely wide enough for two. Sharing it with Mrs. Watson, who not only tossed and turned but tended to snore, was going to be an ordeal. A single, spindly chair provided the only other resting place. The one spot of brightness in the room was a beautiful handmade quilt that covered the bed. Fortune wondered if Mrs. Halleck had made it.
    She picked up the quilt and examined it. The stitches were tiny and even. The pattern, one she did not recognize, was lively and intricate. It was hard to think of that harsh, angry woman doing such lovely work. But if Fortune had learned anything from her years in the theater, it was that people often had many sides.
    Mrs. Watson, for example: She liked to present herself as a woman of the world—strong, independent, and sophisticated. Yet sometimes at night, when she thought Fortune was sleeping, she would cry quietly for hours at a time. And once Fortune had seen her throw a vase of flowers through a plate-glass window in reaction to a bad review.
    Fortune put down the quilt and wandered to the window.
    In the street below she saw Aaron leaning against a fence post, talking to a pretty young girl. Fortune felt her hands tighten on the sill. Why did he look so interested in the stranger? And why did he persist in treating her, Fortune, like nothing but a kid sister?
    â€œMen!” she said in disgust and turned back to the room. Opening the carpetbag that sat next to the door, she drew out the worn script she shared with Mrs. Watson and sat on the bed to review her lines for The Widow’s Daughter.
    After a moment she threw the script to the floor. She knew her lines perfectly well; they had done the play more times than she cared to remember, and she hated it more every time they performed it. It was a ridiculous story about a poor widow who was being hounded by two men who wanted to marry her daughter. One was rich and rotten, naturally; the other, poor but honest and upright.
    Fortune played the daughter. Mrs. Watson had been playing her mother for the last year and a half, and to Fortune’s dismay, she seemed to be taking the role to heart. Lately she had been trying to provide Fortune with more offstage mothering than she could stand.
    Fortune also played three other roles in the play—the minister’s wife, a farmer’s son, and the town drunk. She wished they had some other actors. It was difficult to change parts so often. Sometimes she had to wear one costume under another so she could make her changes fast enough.
    She sighed and got to her feet. Mr. Patchett would be ready to start soon, and she didn’t want to keep him waiting. He had tried so hard since her father—
    Fortune cut off the thought. Grabbing a shawl, she hurried down the stairs.
    Mrs. Watson was waiting in front of the boardinghouse, talking with—or, more likely, at —a dark-haired little girl who was leaning against a post and staring up at her with wide and fascinated eyes.
    â€œAh, here you are,” said Mrs. Watson when she spotted Fortune.
    The child took her finger out of her mouth long enough to say, “You’re pretty!” then popped it back between her lips again.
    â€œSo are you,” said Fortune, kneeling in front of her. That wasn’t entirely true; the child had a pinched, crabbed look that made Fortune suspect that she didn’t get enough to eat. But it made the child smile.
    â€œWhat’s your name?” asked Fortune.
    The girl shook her head.
    â€œIt’s Nancy Conaway,” said Mrs. Watson.
    â€œYou told!” said the girl accusingly.
    Mrs. Watson gasped. “I forgot it was a secret!” she exclaimed, overacting as usual.
    Nancy Conaway giggled, then went running down the street.
    Mrs. Watson does make a good Mother Hen, thought Fortune. Too bad she. doesn’t have about a dozen more chicks. Then she could spread her attention around a little and leave me alone.
    â€œI was waiting for you,” said Mrs.