Walk on Earth a Stranger

“How long?” I ask.

“Just a day. Jasper forced some laudanum into you, so you’d sleep. And so you’d stop bleating about your boots.”

I lurch up.

She puts a hand on my chest and pushes me back. “Don’t worry yourself. Jefferson wouldn’t let Jasper cut them. He insisted.”

“Oh. All right.”

“Mr. Robichaud and me, we take good care of you.”

It’s odd that I’m here instead of with the Joyners, who are my employers. Or maybe not so odd. They probably refused to help, once they knew.

“Merci,” I tell her. Merci. Danke. Thank you. It’s a good thing there are lots of ways to say such an important thing.

“I sent Therese to bring you some undergarments. It will be nice to see you in skirts, finally.”

I gape at her. “You knew?”

“Bien sûr.”

Her smile is kind, which does not reassure me. “How long have you known I’m a girl?”

“A woman. You’re a woman.” She pauses. “Since the first time I saw you, I think.”

“Oh, no.” I pinch the bridge of my nose between thumb and forefinger. “Who else?”

“My husband noticed too. The college men—”

I wince. “I thought they might have figured it out. Back when we took off the Major’s leg. Did everybody know?”

“No, that’s all.” She frowns. “Reverend Lowrey says he knew all along, but I think he does not tell the truth.” She sits across from me in the tiny space and folds her hands on her lap. “And of course, Jefferson.”

“We grew up together.”

“Yes. It is obvious. You do things together without words. Like the way you went for Doreen while he went for the oxen. You would have much worse than a gash if not for that young man.” She reaches forward and strokes my cheek with a forefinger. “Poor chérie.”

A thump on the back of the wagon makes me jump. Therese’s head pops over the edge, and she tosses a bundle of frilly fabric into the wagon. She sees me awake and gives me a relieved smile.

Mrs. Robichaud grabs the bundle and shakes it out, revealing white drawers with lace trim and a ribbon tie of yellow silk. They don’t have a speck of dirt or the slightest wear at the hem. Therese must have been saving them.

“Therese, I couldn’t.”

“Oh, yes, you could. You saved my sister, and you will wear them or I will feel bad.”

Still, I hesitate.

“Jasper cut yours off,” she adds. “You really need to take them.”

“I have something for you too,” Mrs. Robichaud says, pulling another bundle from an open trunk beside her. It’s a yellow calico skirt with a ruffled hem and enough pleats that I could ride Peony while wearing it.

“I’m sorry I don’t have petticoats to go with it,” Mrs. Robichaud says.

“That’s perfect for you,” Therese says. “You have those pretty golden eyes. Like tiger’s-eye gemstones, Jefferson always says.”

Jefferson says that about my eyes? “Well . . .” I swallow hard. “Danke, Therese. Merci, Mrs. Robichaud.”

“Call me Lucie.”

Therese ties the canvas tightly shut at the rear of the wagon, then she clambers over me and does the same at the front. “I’ll help you change,” she says. “We need to be careful of those bandages.”

I sit up, wincing at the sharp pain in my thigh.

“Jasper says no walking for you for a few days,” Mrs. Robichaud says. “You must ride in the wagon or on your horse.”

Therese holds up the drawers while I put my first leg through. “Why did you do it?” she asks. “Wear men’s clothes?”

“Uh . . .” I’m not sure how to answer.

Mrs. Robichaud—Lucie—says, “My sister married a voyageur, a trapper. They trapped along the Hudson Bay. She didn’t want to stay home while he went out hunting, so she sometimes dressed like a man and went with him. When he died from a hernie rupture—”

“A ruptured hernia?”

“That’s it, a ruptured hernia. She continued his work for several years. Lived with his sister.”

“It’s not like that,” I say.

“What happened?”

I open my mouth to spin a tall tale. With a start, I realize I don’t have to lie anymore. The truth is the perfect explanation. It’s a relief to say: “My mama and daddy were murdered.”

Therese gasps.

Saying it out loud brings back the images: Daddy lying dead on the doorstep, Mama propped against the woodpile, trying to breathe. “My uncle Hiram, Daddy’s brother, did it. He as much as admitted it to me, but he’s such a fine gentleman—rich, handsome, educated. No one would have believed me. And then suddenly he was my guardian and our whole farm belonged to him, and I didn’t know what he was going to do with me. . . .”

“Quelle horreur,” Lucie murmurs.

I take a deep breath and slow down. “Truth is, I wanted to go west. My daddy was a gold miner. I grew up knowing everything about gold. So did Jeff. He was the only person I trusted, and he was going to California. I needed to leave town, quick and quiet. My uncle was—is—looking for me, you see. And then I got robbed—my daddy’s Hawken rifle, almost all my money . . .”

“No wonder you chose a disguise,” Lucie says.

“I didn’t mean to become a liar.” Tears well up in my eyes.

Therese’s hands tying the ribbons of my drawers have stilled. “I would have been so scared,” she says.

I consider pretending to be brave for all of two seconds, but I’m done lying. “I was afraid the whole time. Afraid I was going to be found out, afraid of the men who robbed me, afraid that I was going to be alone forever. And then once I started pretending, I was scared to let . . .”

My teeth are suddenly chattering. I cross my arms around my waist and squeeze, like something terrible will come out if I let go.

Lucie puts an arm around me. I lean my head on her shoulder, and I feel such a pang for Mama it’s hard to breathe.

She squeezes me tight. “Is Lee your real name?”

I nod against her shoulder. “Well, it’s Leah. Leah Westfall. But everyone always called me Lee.”

“Then I will call you Lee. But if you want to change it, all you have to do is say so.”