CHAPTER FOUR
I spit polished J. T.’s cabin until he was pleased. I felt like little more than a scullery maid, and that’s exactly the way he treated me. After I had everything spiffed at the end of my first evening—kitchen, bedroom, bath and living room thoroughly dusted, swept and wiped—I watched anxiously as he inspected my work, thinking what I’d done was totally suitable and he should approve. But when I heard the criticism pile on over very tiny, mundane things—a cobweb here, a speck of dust there—I was almost in tears.
“What purpose is there in this?” I asked, trying to assert myself.
“My cabin was dirty. You’re a woman. Cleaning should be a natural act.”
I bristled and held my tongue.
“You’ll finish it in the morning,” he said. He showed me where to sleep—a cot he placed i
