Chapter 21

In Which I Tell Jemma About My Fretting

August 22, 1860

Dear Jemma,

I did not know those secrets about the railroads, and I imagine how much you worry about the Maple Tree. He is a brave soul, as are all of those who travel on it. Now I understand why you want so badly to come back and help folks. You would be good at it. But I believe every hair on my head would fall out from all the worrying I’d do over you. It would be dangerous work, that’s for sure.

Things here in Chicago are muggy full of holey socks fine. We ate squirrel tonight, and it reminded me of the days when you and me you and I went hunting with slingshots, back when we were young ones. You always had good aim. Do you still? Maybe it’s another one of your many talents to add to pie baking, fancy writing, and beating boys at footraces. You never know when it might come in handy.

I still have pretty good aim as well, though firing off my mouth is another thing entirely. I am working harder than ever to keep myself helpful to the Pickled Onion. I’m always worried she’s going to come home one afternoon and tell me she’s done it, that she’s made arrangements for me at some wretched orphan asylum. So I make sure she hears my coins clink into the money tin on her shelf.

When I get to complaining about the Pickled Onion, I remind myself how hard country life was. And then I feel grateful to be here with her in Chicago, even if I do have to stay one step ahead of the orphan house.

The other day, when the Pickled Onion was pestering me about my grammar and vocabulary and bettering myself, she asked me what I aspired to in this life. I did not admit my interest in following in her footsteps, though I do find her line of business exciting. I told her about my newspaper dreams, as well as my admiration for Miss Florence Nightingale and her fame as a nurse.

Do you know what she asked me in reply?

“Why would you dream of being a nurse and not a physician?”

Can you believe such a thing? She declares that any woman can do the same things a man can do. And that means performing a man’s job, too, like she’s done. I shouldn’t let on too much, but I’ll tell you this little cipher. The Pickled Onion seems to take a Colt along with her now, but not the kind that needs a saddle.

Our landlady is shouting for me, so I have to run. But one last question. Have you heard folks talking about Mr. Abraham Lincoln there? He’s trying to stamp out slavery from the land. Maybe if he does, you can come back from Canada safe and sound. Then you and I will sit down over cups of hot coffee and slices of cherry pie, and we will savor every last one of our secrets together.

Very truly your friend,

Nell