by Jane Steen
“I shall wear my sky-blue silk,” I pronounced, folding Martin’s latest letter and slipping it into my pocket. Our letters to each other were short these days—cordial but guarded. A married man with a fashionable wife and a business to run could hardly pour out his heart and mind to a seamstress in a Kansas seminary, although Martin did continue to send me the occasional package of trimmings. The pale gold lace that decorated the aforementioned sky-blue silk had come from Rutherford’s and looked very well. I had cut the back of the dress into a deep V and trimmed it with a substantial border of lace, to shine against my pale skin and bring out the color of my hair.
I pulled my sketching paper toward me, smiling at the study I had done of Sarah earlier. The process of observing and tracing the lines of her face was a delight to me, especially now that the bone structure showed clearly under her skin. She was not, I was relieved to find, going to be one of those redheaded children who were covered with freckles—instead, such sun as was allowed to reach her skin turned it the light golden color of underdone biscuits. In the sunlight, her copper hair took on glints of gold fire—had my father’s hair looked so?
“I want to go to fancy dinners too, Momma,” Sarah pronounced. “An’t I old enough now?”
“You won’t be for a long time.” I chucked her under the chin. “You’ll have to content yourself with giving dinner parties for your dolls. Children are not to be present at an adult social occasion except if someone brings them down for five minutes to greet the company.”
“But Tess is a grown-up,” Sarah said. “Why isn’t she invited?” Sarah was inordinately fond of asking “Why?” about everything.
“She didn’t receive an invitation, I suppose, because she’s not a particular acquaintance of Mrs. Shemmeld’s. I am because I make dresses for her—and I’m invited to keep Mr. Poulton company.”
“Why?” Sarah wrinkled her nose. “Does he have to have a lady with him? Why can’t you sit with someone who talks about nice things like books? I never understand what Mr. Poulton says.”
I sighed. Judah didn’t have the knack of talking to children and generally spoke only to me when Sarah was present, ignoring her altogether. He ignored Tess too, and she was mute in his presence as a general rule. But children, even their own children, were not a man’s province until they grew old enough to be worthy of attention, I supposed. And boys would always get more of a man’s attention than girls.
I turned the sheet of paper over and began sketching the lines of a walking dress I had in mind for Mrs. Froggatt, who would be at tonight’s dinner. The ladies of Springwood were not exactly my friends, but I was on cordial terms with most of them—and there were more of them now since the town was growing fast. Sometimes one of them invited me to take tea in her parlor, amid a richness of décor that always seemed incongruous against the stark beauty of the land around us. How much had it cost their husbands to have these armchairs, these drapes, these antimacassars brought by rail and cart from far-off cities? Despite our newfound wealth, Tess and I were quite content with the plain, painted wood and simple decoration of our shared room. Our only problem was that our wardrobes were now sufficiently extensive that I’d had to move most of our clothing to a small boxroom I’d appropriated for the purpose. One day we would have to move—one day. But where would we go?
Tess bustled in, her short arms piled high with bedsheets, which she deposited on one of the tables with a grunt. I sighed.
“It’s all right—I’ll sort them. Sary can help me.” Tess grinned at both of us. “Sary, Momma is going to have the vapors if she looks at another worn sheet. Can you help me find the holes?”
“Why do the sheets have holes?” Sarah dropped the doll onto a chair and stood on tiptoe to peer up at the pile of linen.
“Because the boys’ heels and elbows are bony, I guess, just like yours.” Tess poked a finger into Sarah’s side, making her squeal and squirm away from her tormentor.
“I don’t make holes. Look, there’s one!” Sarah put her finger on the spot where the light from the window shone through the sheet Tess held. “Momma, it’s like a game. Why don’t you want to play?”
“Momma wants to draw pictures of dresses,” said Tess. “She always gets that look on her face when she’s making up a dress in her head and is itching to try it out on the paper.”
I was quite sure I did no such thing as “get a look on my face,” but my mind was on kick pleats, bundles of them spaced perhaps ten inches apart. This would be a pleasing dress and not too ornate—in fact, I could probably make a version for myself. My pencil flew over the page, making changes and additions as I also wrote little notes to myself around the edges. For my own dress, perhaps a bright navy blue—was there such a thing? Or would that be a dark royal blue? And where would I get it?
I listened with half an ear to Tess and Sarah’s chatter, and their laughter as Tess pretended not to see the worn spots so that Sarah could discover them. Tess had far more patience with Sarah than I did and lacked my own tendency to correct my child, a legacy of having been corrected three dozen times a day myself. She was, in every way, Sarah’s second mother.
“What comes between navy and royal blue?” I muttered under my breath, grabbing another sheet of paper to start a new drawing, this time for my own dress. “And would silk or wool be best?” I’d have to have a new dress before the year’s end, that was certain—a dressmaker could not be shabby or behind the times.
Martin would know, of course. He had access to hundreds of bolts of cloth, thousands of samples, a million furbelows—while I sat on the prairie like a rooted clump of grass, endless miles from the nearest store of any worth.
My pencil, having sketched in the outline of my dress, hovered over the upper right corner of the paper. Should I write “navy walking dress” or “royal blue walking dress”? Did it, in point of fact, matter what I wrote? Perhaps I should ask Martin to send me a bolt of the right cloth. He would know. And I could pay for it too, out of my own funds. It wouldn’t be a gift.
I realized I was sketching the outline of Martin’s thin, rather beaky nose on the reverse side of the paper. If I were trying to flatter him—which I never did—I supposed I might call it aristocratic. A little like the engraving of the Duke of Wellington in Grandmama’s book about Waterloo, only better shaped. Hmm. A squarish face—another book of Grandmama’s sprang to mind, the one that had beautiful illustrations of Viking warriors protected by transparent sheets of paper. His lips—as I child I had always loved their shape, the hollow in the upper lip and the fullness of the lower. If it was late in the day and he needed to shave, my childish fingernails would rasp against the growth of pale stubble around them.
“What are you doing?” asked Tess, looking over my shoulder. “Oh! Martin! That’s a very good likeness, Nell.”
“Who’s Martin?”
“You know, Sary, Momma’s old friend who looks after our money.” Tess folded up the last sheet with an air of triumph.
“Mr. Rutherford to you,” I said reprovingly to my child.
“Why has he got a big nose?”
“You have a big nose.” I picked up my progeny and plunked her on my lap, kissing the tiny proboscis that sported exactly three freckles. “You’re very nosy about everything.”
“You’ve got a bumpy nose,” retorted my offspring. “What’s elegant? I heard Mr. Poulton say it.”
“That’s enough of that.” I rose to my feet, hoisting Sarah up so that she was resting on my hip. “Come and watch me put on my pretty dress for this evening.”
“You’ll be the most beautifullest lady at the dinner,” Sarah declared. “And Mr. Poulton’ll be the prettiest gentleman, I s’pose.” She pouted. “But he’s no fun.”
“A gentleman in his position must be dignified, not fun. And men aren’t pretty.”
“He is,” I heard Tess’s voice on the breeze behind us as we left the room. “But he’s not very nice.”
I ignored her.
18
/>
Goose
“This is a delicious bird, Mrs. Shemmeld.” Judah took another bite of the tender meat and laid his knife and fork on the plate to reach for his water glass. Like me, he ate in the English fashion with both halves of the silverware involved. “Not a wild one, I think?”
“Certainly not.” Mrs. Shemmeld, a tall, stout woman with the face of a governess, bristled a little. And then softened, as women tended to do when Judah smiled at them. “I had it delivered especially and slaughtered it myself this morning. It is quite, quite fresh.”
The image of Mrs. Shemmeld with a cleaver in her hand, the goose’s lifeblood dripping from its still-twitching neck and a surprised expression in its silly eyes, rose up before me. Still, one must eat. I cut myself another small bite of the savory flesh.
“Did you pluck it yourself, Mrs. Shemmeld?” Judah’s face was angled toward me, and I could see his expression of polite interest, the limpid beauty of his violet-blue eyes as serene as the summer sky.
“No, my cook—oh, you’re laughing at me, Mr. Poulton.” Mrs. Shemmeld’s severe face wrinkled into a smile, and she raised her hand to hide her bad teeth. “You intellectual gentlemen have such a way of saying dreadful things with a straight face.”
“Quite proper,” said Mr. Lehmann, who sat on my right. He was Reiner’s uncle; Reiner had not been invited to the dinner. I had seen that young man watching us as we left, an expression of wry discontent on his face. “A good housekeeper takes a personal interest in the preparation of the meat.”
Well, Mama had never taken the slightest interest in preparing food. Whatever would I do if I found myself in charge of running a household? I didn’t know how to boil an egg.
“Mrs. Shemmeld is a superb hostess.”
Judah raised his glass in Mrs. Shemmeld’s direction, its incised surface catching the colors of the magnificent prairie sunset. “I propose a toast of thanks for her hospitality.”
Our glasses contained pure, fresh well water, so much better than Dr. Calderwood’s wines. I drank heartily.
“Mrs. Lillington, do you not agree that Mrs. Shemmeld is the consummate hostess?” Judah turned the full force of his gaze upon me.
“It’s a delicious meal,” I told the older lady with perfect sincerity. “I’m enjoying myself tremendously.”
Mrs. Shemmeld smiled, her lips closed. “I’m happy to provide an evening’s diversion for the younger members of our little community. Of course, we in the town feel that the seminary, as it were, belongs to us—as if we were cousins.” She gave a little giggle that was completely at odds with her forbidding countenance. “And you in particular, Mrs. Lillington, have brought delight and joy to the ladies of Springwood with your perfectly marvelous dresses.”
“Indeed she has,” interjected Mrs. Yomkins, bestowing a warm smile on me. I returned it with interest. I was fond of this particular customer, whose sly wit and insight into everyone else’s motives had often reduced me to fits of unladylike laughter. “Just think what a desert we’d be in otherwise. Why, we might all be obliged to force our husbands to take us to Paris just to augment our wardrobes!”
Mr. Yomkins visibly paled at the thought of the expense, and I made a pretense of wiping my mouth with my napkin to hide my smile.
“I can’t imagine anything better than visiting a Parisian house of couture,” I said. “I’d like to sit at the feet of Mr. Worth and worship. I’ve never seen one of his dresses, but I think I’d recognize one instantly, so carefully have I studied the descriptions in the journals.”
“Oh, you should indeed go to Paris, Mrs. Lillington.” That was Mrs. Froggatt, who was one of those women who never quite managed to be as stylish as she wished to be. “Then you could come back and make us more magnificent than ever.”
A chorus of howls greeted this suggestion, all the ladies agreeing that once in Paris, I would never come back.
“You’re too young to be a widow, Mrs. Lillington.” This was from Mrs. McGilloway, who was fairly young herself—considerably younger than her husband. “Do you not think of marrying again? You’ll never go to Paris by yourself, I fear.”
I bit back the retort that I could perfectly well afford to go to Paris with my own money, then felt that strange pang that went through me every time I realized, as if for the first time, the extent of my wealth. I saw Judah’s gaze flick briefly toward me and knew he was thinking the same thing.
“Not such an ordeal, I hope?” Judah asked as we watched Mrs. Shemmeld’s buggy, which had brought us back to the seminary, bounce over the ruts on its way back to Springwood. The night was warm, but the breeze felt pleasant, and we lingered at the top of the steps, reluctant to exchange the fresh night air for the seminary’s dusty atmosphere. The waxing moon hung in the sky, its light competing with the jeweled stars. I could see Judah almost as clearly as if it were daylight.
“Thanks to you, it wasn’t. It’s astonishing how often matron ladies return to the topic of marriage when there are spinsters and bachelors in the company, isn’t it? But you steered the conversation onto other matters every time.”
“I’m not fond of people interrogating me, and I don’t suppose you are either.” I could see Judah’s white teeth as he smiled and the glint in his slanted eyes. “It’s tiresome.”
I laughed. “We’d better get inside.” From our sheltered position under the porch, I couldn’t see the window of Mrs. Drummond’s room, but I knew it was there—and I was sure her curtain was twitching. “If we linger, tongues will wag.”
“Will they?” Judah’s voice was light. “The word is that it’s young Mr. Lehmann who’s courting you.”
I dipped my head. “What am I supposed to say to that? I can’t discuss a matter that’s confidential to Mr. Lehmann.” Especially to a man who had fought with him, possibly over me.
“I’m not asking you to discuss it.”
Judah’s voice had become caressing. He touched my chin with his gloved finger, lifting it, and then pulled off his fine evening gloves and stuffed them into a pocket. His face was in shadow now; mine must have been lit by the moonlight, transparent and open.
“I wish—I wish you to know, Nell, that Mr. Lehmann is not the only man here with an interest in your future.”
Judah raised his hand again to brush a stray curl off my face. His fingers were cool on my warm skin, and a shiver ran over me, sending sparks of energy into my shoulders and wrists.
“Does—“ My voice came out in a squeak, and I cleared my throat. “Has your interest in my future increased since you realized I have money, Judah?”
“Ah.” He tipped his head, and I saw his eyes slant in amusement over his high cheekbones. “You’re an astute young woman, and I suppose I deserved that.”
He pushed his hands into the pockets of his jacket and turned to face the star-spattered night sky. “How am I going to answer that accusation?” he said into the empty air.
“With honesty.” I folded my arms to still their trembling—it was strange, but whereas with Reiner I felt entirely in control of the situation, with Judah I felt—what? Danger?
“I think I’ve been honest with you all along, Nell. I made it clear from the outset that I couldn’t afford to pursue a woman without money. Which doesn’t mean I would pursue any woman simply because she has money. I’d have to feel an attraction toward her too.” He paused for a long moment. “I have—always—felt such an attraction to you, Nell. The fact of your wealth allows me to express it.”
He moved back toward me and caught one of my hands in his. Pushing back my lace glove, he kissed the pulse point on my wrist, and my knees turned to rubber.
“With you by my side, there’s nothing I couldn’t do,” Judah continued, rubbing his thumb over the place he’d kissed. “And there’s nothing you couldn’t achieve with me behind you. If we joined forces,” he lowered his lips to my wrist again so that I felt his warm breath caressing my skin as he spoke, “I could make you extremely happy.” His head came up, and for a few s
econds I felt his lips pressed to mine.
If I had drunk wine, I would know why my head was spinning. If I’d been running, I’d know why I was breathless. I had been neither drinking nor running, and yet I felt dazed, mesmerized by the man whose beautiful dark curls were so close that I only had to sink the fingers of my free hand into them—
I took a step backward, freeing myself from his arms. “I don’t know.” I wanted to ask if he loved me, but I had no more idea of making such an appeal to Judah Poulton than I would have to the marble angel that stood guard over Springwood’s small cemetery. Judah was just as beautiful as the statue and just as forbidding in his beauty.
“You don’t have to say a thing; I know it’s too sudden to contemplate.” Judah straightened his shirt front. “We should go inside, in any case—I don’t want to damage your reputation. I just wanted you to know, that’s all.”
He held the door open for me, and when I saw Mrs. Calderwood standing there, I felt a pang of guilt and shame. Did I look as bedazzled as I felt? But the little woman only smiled.
“A fine night, Mr. Poulton. And Mrs. Lillington, that is a truly beautiful gown. Allow me to see you safely to your room, my dear.”
Her words and her benign expression confused me. Two years before, she had practically accused me of being a harlot, and now she saw me walk through the door with a man and was wreathed in smiles. I followed her dumbly up the stairs, answering her little questions about the dinner in monosyllables.
I undressed in the dark, laying my dress carefully over the table so I could inspect it for spots and snags in the morning. Tess’s small snores and Sarah’s gentle breathing competed with the fine hiss of the wind through the open window and the sounds of the night, muted this high above the ground.
I climbed into bed, but sleep didn’t come. Instead, I stared through the open curtains at the stars, now partly obscured by long streaks of cloud.
Now what? I had, apparently, two men courting me, neither of whom liked the other. And neither of them knew that fact about my past life which I was duty bound to reveal to them. Perhaps telling them would repulse their attentions, even at the cost of bringing down opprobrium on my head and shame on Sarah’s. Did I wish to repulse their attentions? I had no idea. But I’d have to tell them, wouldn’t I? If I wanted honesty from them, I’d have to offer the same.
