Читать книгу The Courtship - Lynna Banning, Lynna Banning - Страница 11

“Here’s your tea, Mama.” Jane lowered the silver tray onto the table next to the upholstered settee. “I fixed it just the way you like it.”

“Why, thank you, dear. Such a nice custom, don’t you think? Whenever Ah am in a tizzy, Ah just have my tea and soon it’s all better.”

Jane gazed past her mother’s pale blue eyes to focus on the rose-flowered wallpaper on the wall behind her. How Mama clung to the past, especially when things upset her. Her entire day was made up of rituals from when she had been a belle—hot cocoa served to her in bed, roses arranged in crystal vases, tea every afternoon. Then the War came, and their lives were shattered. Until the day he died, her father referred to that dreadful fighting as The War of Northern Aggression.

“I went to town today, Mama. To the bank and the mercantile.” She forced a gaiety she didn’t feel into her tone.

“I trust you were properly chaperoned?”

Jane hesitated, her hand on the handle of the silver teapot. “No, Mama,” she said softly. She lifted the delicate painted china cup and tipped the pot forward. Her hand shook as she poured.

“Your father spends entirely too much time fussin’ over those peach trees of his. We’ve already got a cellar full of jams and jellies, and Ah can’t bear the thought of another crop comin’ on. We must ask Jonas to bring his darkies to help.”

Darkies! Jane met her mother’s dreamy gaze. Jonas had been her father’s overseer at Montclair. Numb, she tried to think what to say.

“Mama? We haven’t laid eyes on Jonas, or his darkies, for over a decade. Are you feeling a bit tired?” She set the teacup down and took hold of her mother’s soft, cool hand. The skin was so transparent a tracery of blue veins showed through.

A dull pain pressed near her heart. Her mother was growing frail. Washing the kitchen floor and changing the bed linen, as they had done together each Saturday morning since they’d come west, would soon be out of the question. From now on, Jane would have to manage by herself.

“Mama, I spoke to Mr. Wilder at the bank this afternoon. I—I’m going to start a business.”

“Wilder? I don’t recall the name, dear. Who are his people?”

Jane let an inaudible sigh escape through her lips. As far as she knew, Rydell Wilder had no “people.” Anyway, she didn’t want to think about him.

She moved toward the kitchen. “Finish your tea, Mama, while I fix our supper.”

She concocted a sandwich of sorts using sliced tomatoes and cheese melted on the biscuits left over from breakfast. Jane wasn’t the least bit hungry, and her mother ate both portions.

After washing up the dishes, she opened all the windows and the front door to catch the cooling evening breeze, then pulled the cherrywood sewing cabinet into the front parlor. Tomorrow she’d have to find someone to load it into a wagon and haul it down to her store. But first, she had to scrub the place six ways to Sunday with a bucket of hot soapy water and a broom.

Her mother settled on the settee, propping her feet on a crewelwork-covered hassock to relieve the swelling in her ankles. The kerosene table lamp sent a pool of light over the book open in her lap.

“Jane Charlotte, just listen to what Mr. Tennyson writes. “The old order changeth, yielding place to new…. Whatever does he mean?”

A sob bubbled up from Jane’s throat, and she clamped her jaws tight shut. She thought of Papa, lying cold and still in a grave behind the orchard, of Montclair before the Union army came, the way the sun lit the tupelo tree as they drove the buggy down the drive for the last time. The old order.

“It means that things change,” she murmured. “That we must look forward, not back.”

Right then and there she decided she detested Mr. Tennyson. Things weren’t supposed to change, especially if they were beautiful things—peaceful summer days and evenings so quiet you could hear the darkies singing from their quarters beyond the stables, a father who was strong and brave, a mother like a small exquisite bird entertaining dinner guests dressed in shirred emerald satin and petticoats so wide she had to move sideways through doors. Why, why did such lovely things have to be destroyed?

Worst of all, why did she now find herself beholden to that aggravating know-it-all Mr. Rydell Wilder? Merciful heavens, he looked at her as if he owned her already!

She frowned as something stirred her memory. There was a boy once, who looked something like Mr. Wilder around the eyes. He’d walked her home from school that first day, and she noticed first that he was tall, with a shock of unruly dark hair tumbling over his forehead, second that he was barefoot. He had shoes, he’d told her…. He just didn’t wear them except in winter.

He had a gentle voice, she recalled. He explained about being new in a town and said he would watch out for her. She remembered that his shirt was clean and pressed, but the sleeves were so short his wrists stuck out. When he saw her staring at them, he unbuttoned the cuffs and rolled them up. His knuckles were scraped raw from a fight he’d been in. She wanted to cry at the sight of those bony wrists.

Odd that she’d think of that now. It was so long ago, but for some reason remembering it made her feel warm inside.

“Jane Charlotte, Ah want to read some of this lovely poetry to your father. He is partial to poetry, you recall. Wordsworth and Shelley are his favorites.”

“Mama? Mama, I’ve tried to explain about Papa….” Oh, what was the use? Mama had always refused to acknowledge things that were unpleasant.

Jane stood up, aware that her chest felt tight. The skin over her cheeks burned. She opened her mouth, then snapped it shut. Perhaps it would be wiser to—

“Miss Davis?” A low voice spoke through the front door screen. Jane froze as the tall form of a man loomed on the porch. With the lamplight from inside, she could not see him clearly in the dark. Mercy me, at least she’d latched the screen! Otherwise he could walk right in.

“Who’s there?” she blurted.

Her mother looked up from her volume of poetry. “Jane Charlotte, where are your manners? Is that any way to greet a caller?”

A lazy laugh rumbled from the front porch. “Thank you, Mrs. Davis. It’s Rydell Wilder. May I come in?”

Jane stood as if transfixed. Come in? Few people—and decidedly fewer men—ever crossed their threshold.

“Jane Charlotte.” Her mother’s light, clear voice carried over the thudding of her heart. “Don’t keep your guest standin’ on the porch.”

With reluctance, Jane moved forward and unhooked the latch.

Rydell stepped through the doorway. “I’m obliged, Mrs. Davis. If you hadn’t interceded, I might have frozen to death.” He sent Jane a quick look, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“It’s a warm summer night,” Jane snapped. “People don’t freeze to death in July.”

Her mother stirred on the settee. “Wilder,” she murmured. “Wilder…have we been introduced?”

“Some years back, ma’am. When your husband was associated with the newspaper office.”

“Oh, yes. How nice to see you again, Mr. Wilder.”

Jane stepped forward. “What do you want?”

“Jane Charlotte!” Her mother had not raised her voice, but Jane jerked guiltily just the same.

“Ah expect you wish to see my husband, Mr. Wilder? We were just about to have our afternoon tea, won’t you join us? Jane, go set the kettle on and call your father.”

Rydell’s gaze held hers for a long, long moment, and then he dipped his head in a barely perceptible nod. “Thank you, Mrs. Davis, but my errand concerns your daughter.” He turned to face Jane.

“You left something in my office this afternoon.” He pressed a white envelope into her hand. “The key,” he said in a low voice. “You’ll need it to unlock the store.” He closed her fingers around the stiff paper.

An army of white-hot needles marched along her skin where his hand touched hers.

“Jane Charlotte, do let us have some tea! And call your father.”

Jane fought the urge to scream.

“Please don’t trouble yourself,” Rydell said. He looked straight into Jane’s eyes. “There’s no need to bother Colonel Davis. I’m sure he has pressing business elsewhere this evening.”

He released Jane’s hand, bowed to her mother, and turned toward the door. Jane noticed his leather boots were polished to a shine.

“Lefty Springer’ll be there tomorrow, if you need help,” he said.

“I need no help, thank you.” Her hand still tingled, and the sensation made her slightly dizzy. It felt as if that part of her body didn’t belong to her any longer, but belonged instead to him. Goodness, what if he touched my shoulder? My chin? Would those parts of me feel the same? As if they belonged to a different person?

Rydell grinned at her. “Like I said, Lefty’ll be there. You can fire him if you want, but I warn you, he’s almost as stubborn as his employer.”

It took her a moment to grasp his meaning. By the time she’d thought up a retort, he had disappeared through the doorway. The screen banged shut behind him.

Her mother sighed. “My, what a nice young man.”

“He’s a Yankee, Mama!”

“Is he? Well, fancy that. A Yankee in Marion County.”

“Mama, we’re not in…” Oh, what was the use? Maybe it was better this way. At least Mama was not suffering the awful grief widows usually endured.

Jane’s mind buzzed. Her hands itched to be busy. Part of it was the need to escape rather than watch her mother retreat into her pretend world. The rest…well, she couldn’t bear to think of that just yet. Her skin felt stretched tight along the length of her spine and across her shoulders. The sensation was so intense she half expected her body to split in half. She needed to do something!

Her pulse hammering, she climbed the stairs up to the attic for her pattern box and the worn copy of Godey’s Ladies’ Book.

All at once she could hardly wait to begin.

Jane twisted the key in the rusty lock and pushed the plank door wide. A puff of hot, musty air washed over her, smelling of chicken mash—earthy and slightly sweet. For a moment she felt she might lose her breakfast.

She leaned over the mop bucket she’d brought from home, clamped her hand across her stomach, and closed her eyes. She could not do this. The only thing she’d scrubbed in her life was her mother’s already-spotless kitchen floor, and this was a far cry from that. This, she acknowledged, gazing at the cobweb-swathed walls and ceiling and the grains of something moldy heaped into the corners, was one step above a henhouse. Or maybe a step or two below.

Merciful heavens, she had borrowed good money to set up a dressmaking shop in a pigsty! The smell was overpowering.

Another wave of nausea swept over her. She clenched her jaws tight and convulsively swallowed down the bitter saliva pouring into her mouth.

When she could raise her head, she fumbled in the pocket of her blue work skirt for a handkerchief, folded it in half cross-wise, and tied it over her nose and mouth. The scent of lavender masked the odor of the stifling room just enough; if she left the door open and worked fast, maybe she could manage it.

She took the bucket outside, filled it at the pump near the horse trough in front of the hotel across the street, then lugged it into the mercantile. Mr. Mercer had offered to heat water for her on the potbellied stove next to the candy counter. While she waited, she rolled up the sleeves of her high-necked white waist and began sweeping down the walls.

Debris, dirt particles, even what looked like decayed bird droppings rained down on her. She rolled the sleeves back down to protect her arms. As she worked, a thick yellow dust rose and hung in the air like smoke. It made her cough, and her eyes began to smart, but she gritted her teeth and worked steadily until Mr. Mercer poked his head in the doorway.

“Here’s yer water, Miz Davis. ’Bout to boil, it was, so watch yerself, it’s awful hot.” He plunked the brimming bucket onto the floor.

Jane leaned on her broom to catch her breath. “Thank you kindly, sir.”

The storekeeper shook his balding head. “Saddest thing I ever did see,” he murmured.

Jane took his comment to heart. “I find I am quite surprising myself. It is hard work, but it just wants a bit of pluck and dash and it will all come straight.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean that, ma’am. I mean the thought of a lady turnin’ my feed store into a dressmakin’ shop. Too ladyfied for the likes of Dixon Falls.”

Jane stared at the wiry man in denim overalls standing before her. “Ladyfied? Why, you have ladies here in Dixon Falls, do you not? Ladies who wear dresses?”

“We got women. Not ladies. Not like you ’n yer ma, that is.”

Jane gave him her warmest smile, then realized he couldn’t possibly see it under her handkerchief mask. “Oh, we are all pretty much the same under the skin, don’t you think?”

“I dunno, ma’am,” he mumbled as he turned away. “I jes’ dunno.”

“Well I do,” Jane announced to the dust swirling in his wake. “Women are women. We all wear corsets and underdrawers and shimmies and petticoats. And dresses,” she added. “Handsome dresses that I intend to conjure from pattern pieces and my own imagination.”

With that, she unwrapped the square of lye soap, drew out the kitchen paring knife she’d brought in her pocket, and began to shave slivers of soap into the bucket of hot water. She swirled her broom to and fro, and when the suds bubbled to the top, she plunged the straw in up to the stitching and sloshed the soapy implement back and forth along the length of the wall.

Droplets of dingy water and soapsuds splatted onto her clothes, and her hair, neatly pinned up this morning, began to loosen and now straggled about her face. She felt sodden, and her fingernails were so dirt-encrusted she could not bear to look at them. She could just hear Mama’s reproachful voice. “Jane Charlotte, what have you been doin’ with your hands!” Even if her mother had a voice that was always soft and regulated, she brooked no mistreatment of hair or skin; such a transgression was worse than disobedience and elicited as sharp a criticism as if she had volunteered to spy for the Yankees.

Oh, well, it couldn’t be helped. She’d paid off all of Papa’s debts first thing this morning; by this evening, she would have the place for her business. She positively must be a success. She had to repay Mr. Wilder’s bank loan or suffer a fate worse than death—marriage to That Man. That Yankee.

She worked through two more buckets of hot water before the walls and floors were cleaned to her satisfaction. She would not open a business in dingy quarters! Her back and shoulders felt as if she’d been yoked like an ox to a Conestoga wagon. Every muscle in her neck screamed. Even her derriere was sore.

By the time she got around to washing the front window, she was so tired her legs would no longer support her weight. She sank down onto her knees, dipped a clean rag into her still-warm water bucket, and addressed the lower half of the expanse of glass.

And that was how Rydell found her. He tapped on the open door and lifted his foot to step over the threshold when her voice stopped him in his tracks.

“You get one speck of dirt on my clean floor and I’ll dump this mop bucket over your head.”

Her back was toward him, but he realized she could see his reflection in the glass. He eased back onto the boardwalk step. “I brought your supplies from home,” he called.

She scooted around on her bottom to face him.

“What are you talking about? I haven’t sent for anything yet.”

Rydell caught his breath. She was filthy from head to toe, her hair bedraggled, her once-white waist half pulled out of her water-splotched blue skirt. A ridiculously feminine-looking embroidered handkerchief, folded into a triangle, covered the bottom half of her face. She looked like an angel-bandit. A dirt-streaked and very weary angel-bandit.

He resisted the impulse to scoop her bodily from the floor and carry her off to his private suite at the hotel. And a bathtub.

Her eyes flashed fire. “Have you come to gloat over my difficulties?”

“Believe me, Miss Davis, I would not gloat over a lady in your current…situation.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

Rydell pushed down the chuckle that threatened. “Lefty Springer got bucked off a horse this morning. I came in his place.”

Jane glared at him. “To do what? Laugh at me? I must be a pretty sight, all wet and dirty and so tired I could…” She stopped abruptly as her voice wobbled.

He tore his gaze from her face and studied the floor instead. She was tuckered out, close to breaking. He had predicted as much, but now that it was before him, he wanted to spare her pride. He concentrated on the toe of his boot.

“I came to help, Jane. Lefty gave his word, and I back him up. Always have. His leg’s hurt, so I came instead. Your sewing machine and some boxes of patterns and such are in the wagon out front.”

Jane looked up at him in silence. The blue eyes under the dark eyebrows grew shiny. “I do thank you, Mr. Wilder.” Her voice sounded choked up. “And I apologize. I am so tired I hardly know what I am saying.”

“Rafe Mercer’ll help me unload. You ready for your things?”

Jane tossed her cleaning rag into the bucket and got to her feet. “How did you know what to bring?”

“I asked your mother. She was very helpful.”

“Mama? Why, she hardly knows where she is, let alone where I am or what I am doing.”

Rydell nodded. “I think she understands more than you think. What’s important to her is you. I convinced her I was helping you.”

She shook her head. “That does not exactly make sense, Mr. Wilder. It is to your advantage that I fail in this venture. Why in the world would you offer help?”

Rydell took a single step toward her, reached out and pulled down the handkerchief mask. “Been askin’ myself that question all morning.”

“And what is your answer to that very question?” Her voice had steadied, but it dropped to a whisper, whether from emotion or exhaustion he couldn’t begin to guess.

“Damn—darned if I know,” he admitted. The scent of lavender floating in the air made his insides ache. Oh, God, he wanted to…

Before he knew what he was doing, he closed his fingers around her upper arm.

She didn’t move, just looked at him. He saw fear, and then something else in her eyes. Unable to help himself, he pulled her toward him, lifted his other hand to her shoulder, and bent his head. When his mouth found hers, he lost all track of time.

Her lips were warm and tasted of salt. He’d never known such excruciating sweetness. Instinctively he probed for more, then broke free. He didn’t think he could stop if he didn’t call a halt now.

“You’re right, this doesn’t exactly make sense,” he breathed against her temple. “No sense at all.”