Reckoning of Boston Jim

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Book: Read Reckoning of Boston Jim for Free Online
Authors: Claire Mulligan
Tags: Fiction, Literary, Historical
were no place for a woman. And he would never forgive himself if on their journey they were attacked by a pack of bears. “Do not worry, my love, I will write each and every week,” he promised. “And you must write to me.”
    â€œAh no, no. You haven’t taught me the letters yet. I can’t write proper, Eggy, I can’t.”
    â€œMrs. Smitherton will help,” he said. “Though I beg you, dearest, do not use that moniker in your missives.” Do not use it ever, he would have said, but by then she was in his arms, her breath warming his neck, his chest, and so forth.
    â€œI will return, my darling, with fortune in hand. Do not trouble your heart.”
    â‰ˆÂ Â â‰ˆÂ Â â‰ˆ
    Eugene raises an imaginary glass to Mary and Jeremiah who, though Catholic converts, have both been well vouched for. To the Smithertons, who have sworn to look in on Dora each and every day. They are an older, childless couple, both tall and thin and beaming with brotherly love. They are friendly with the Indians to the point of asking them to tea and serving them platters of vegetables from their very hands. They are friendly with the young pastor also, and come on occasion to his services at the butter church. When the pastor sees them there, as gravely polite as two children, his face lights up with the joy of the hunt and he expounds on the divinity of Christ, the vast evidence for it all, for they, being Unitarians, do not believe in such things. The eschewing of all meat but fish, however, seems to be their own peculiar affectation.
    â€œTrust only the Smithertons, and Mary and Jeremiah,” he told Dora time and again. It is not that she is a bad judge of character. She does not judge character at all. She sees a halo of good around everyone. He gathers that her father was the same. Certainly she speaks well of Thomas Timmons. Eugene wishes he could speak so well of his father. But no, his father, Sir Alfred Hume, had the rude, bleary stare, the rumpled clothes, the general ill temper of one rousted rudely from sleep. He was from a line of sons who had steadily milked the family fortune, leaving Eugene with nothing to rely upon but his wits and fine bearing. Thank Christ for Aunt Georgina, the forgotten widowed sister to his long dead mother. After visiting her countless times she gave him five hundred dollars as well as the idea that the colonies would be a fine place for a man such as himself. “I suggest that you stay and never return,” was her sage advice.
    He leans against the door, opening it with his weight. His supplies are heaped in one corner of the small, gabled room, are soon to be packed in his three trunks and good sized rucksack. He has a linen shirt and one of blue serge, a pair of moleskin trousers, and one of wool, socks, collars, an anorak, a blanket coat, a broad-brimmed hat as well as a top hat with hat box, a bed roll, a canvas tent, a compass, a barometer, a leather-bound notebook for the writing of his memoirs, a sketch pad (for he had some talent at sketching as a boy), a rifle, a new revolver, a matchsafe, a knife, a kettle, a fry pan, a folding candlestick, a leather drinking cup, three jars of antimacassar oil, good wax candles, a book jack, a lantern, a portable writing set with desk, a travelling games board, a moustaches comb, a clothes brush, a kerosene lantern, a brass telescope, a stout walking stick, and several books of poetry, as well as other sundries. Most importantly, he has several copies of his letter of introduction should he meet with the scions of the goldfields. The letters, impressively affixed with a large red seal, outline his three years at the college of Oriel, his year as a commissioned lieutenant, his posting in the Crimea. They extol his character, mention that his father was knighted for service to the Queen, and hint that an Earl lurks somewhere in his family tree. Every time he handles them he is glad that he found that

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