Adelaide patted her cheeks with her fingertips. “Oh dear. Does it really look that bad?”
Isabella nodded.
“Well, don’t let it frighten you. I hardly feel it any longer. My lip is a little tender, but that’s all. I think I ache more from all the hard work we did with Miguel yesterday than from anything that happened in the stables.” Adelaide stood up, took Isabella’s hand, and began leading her down to the kitchen. Her stomach growled in eagerness. Adelaide covered it with her hand and winked down at her charge.
“That wasn’t very ladylike, was it?”
Isabella smiled, and Adelaide breathed easier. Now, if she could just keep the child distracted until she grew accustomed to the bruises. She needed a project of some kind. Something big.
When they reached the staircase, Adelaide maneuvered Isabella toward the railing so she could hold on with her free hand.
“Since I’m not feeling well today, how about we let the men handle the shearing without us?” Even knowing José would be gone, Adelaide had no desire to encounter any other members of the crew. However, Isabella had enjoyed herself so much yesterday she might want to join her father again today. “Would you mind?” Adelaide held her breath.
Isabella shrugged an answer, not looking too dejected by the prospect of staying in. Adelaide exhaled in relief.
“I thought we might start a new project,” she ruminated aloud. “Something educational, but a wee bit frivolous. Something feminine. Something … I’ve got it!”
Adelaide tugged Isabella to a halt one step shy of the bottom. Letting go of her hand, Adelaide hopped down to the floor and turned around, excitement thrumming through her. Not caring that her wide grin pulled painfully against her scabbed lip, she clapped her hands to her knees and leaned over until her eyes were level with those of her charge.
“Izzy! We’re going to have a party. And you will be our hostess!”
Chapter 14
The rocking of the rail car unsettled Reginald Petchey’s stomach. First the steamer passage across the Atlantic with its sloshing to and fro and now this infernal jostling. It was a crime for a country to grow so wide a man couldn’t ride a horse across it in decent order. The colonies should have stayed huddled together on the eastern seaboard and let the heathens keep the rest. Most of the scenery speeding by his window looked godforsaken anyway.
Farnsworth had managed to secure a private compartment on a Pullman car, but the quarters were still much too close. Reginald escaped to the smoking room as often as possible for a cigar or a game of cards with whomever happened to be handy. He made sure not to win too heavily, though. Wouldn’t do to leave too memorable an impression on anyone.
Just then the door opened, letting in the clatter from the public section along with his not-so-esteemed companion. “I have the soda crackers you requested, Lord Petchey.”
Reginald bounded to his feet and threw the door closed. “Have a care, man.” He snatched the biscuit tin out of Farnsworth’s hand and glared down at the man. “How many times do I have to tell you that for the purposes of this trip I am not Lord Petchey. You are to address me as Mr. Edward Church. Do you think you can wrap your feeble brain around that particular instruction?”
“My apologies, my lor— I mean, sir. My apologies, sir.” Farnsworth’s neck reddened as he tripped over his tongue.
Reginald gritted his teeth. If the fellow weren’t so talented at doctoring his ledgers he’d have turned him out ages ago. The man had the social intelligence of a gnat.
Farnsworth turned his back and hung his hat on one of the wallmounted hooks. “I don’t see why we must keep up the pretense in private. In fact, I don’t really see why there’s need for a pretense at all. Our best chance to convince Westcott to relinquish guardianship of the girl is to reveal your familial connection. An assumed name serves no purpose.”
“That is why you will never be a great man, Farnsworth. You only consider what is expected. It is by anticipating the unexpected and preparing in advance to meet that challenge that success is achieved.” Reginald opened the tin and extracted a single square. His companion didn’t yet fully grasp his intentions toward Westcott, and if Reginald could continue manipulating the cards in this game to suit his pleasure, he never would.
“We don’t know what kind of hand Westcott is holding or how much he is willing to drive up the wager. Traveling under an assumed name protects me should anything … inauspicious occur. It wouldn’t do for scandal to follow us across the sea once dear Isabella is returned to me. My niece has suffered enough.”
Taking a bite of the salty biscuit, Reginald returned to his cushioned bench, brushing away the crumbs that fell upon the dark wool of his coat. Farnsworth lowered himself into the seat opposite him. Reginald raised an affronted brow as he swallowed, but the fellow was too busy staring at his boots to notice. Truly, he didn’t know which was making him more ill—the ceaseless rocking of the rail car or having to stare at Farnsworth’s pasty face throughout the journey.
Reginald popped the rest of the soda cracker into his mouth and turned his attention to the window. He’d heard tales from some of his countrymen about how in years past a man could pay for the privilege of hunting big game from a rail car. Buffalo, wasn’t it? Now, that would be a welcome diversion. Nothing like a good hunt to take a man’s mind from the dreariness of travel. Considering his prowess with rifles, he’d probably fell dozens before the herd could stampede out of range.
A cluster of rock outcroppings came into view, and Reginald imagined pressing his Remington to his shoulder as the rocks took on the shape of fierce, horned beasts. They’d be in range soon. Slowing his breathing, he mentally loaded a cartridge and selected a target. Sight down the barrel. Finger the trigger. Wait for the perfect moment.
Patience.
Just a bit closer.
“Why am I not using an assumed name?”
The intrusion of Farnsworth’s whiny voice scattered Reginald’s fictitious herd and obliterated his good humor. “Because you’re a servant,” Reginald snapped. “No one remembers servants.”
A knock sounded on the door, sparing Farnsworth a further dressing down.
“Enter,” Reginald called, taking pains to erase all annoyance from his voice.
A dark-skinned porter stepped through the opening. “I brung your shoes, Mr. Church, sir. All polished up real fine they are. Real fine.”
Reginald smiled at the man. “Thank you. You may place them in the wardrobe.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Church, sir.”
Mr. Church. He liked the sound of that. Had a lovely, ironic ring. Lucinda put such store in the institution, after all, it seemed only fitting that he use it to cleanse his palate of the last dregs of her influence.
Soon he would be in Texas. He’d deal with Westcott and return to his estate with Isabella in tow. Rescuing his niece from the wilds of America and raising her as a Petchey on Petchey land was the least he could do to honor his brother’s memory. Of course, seeing to the girl’s upbringing would necessitate solidifying the family finances. Thankfully, her trust fund would make quick work of that little detail.
“I’ll be back in a couple of hours to make down the berths for the night, sir,” the porter said, pausing beside Reginald’s seat.
“Excellent.” He pulled a coin from his vest pocket and slid it into the man’s palm. “For I plan to have supremely pleasant dreams this evening.”
Golden dreams.
Chapter 15
It had been just over a week since Adelaide hatched the party scheme, and Isabella had taken to the plan with relish. The two of them spent hours huddled together in the schoolroom plotting the perfect event. No detail escaped their attention. Guest list, invitations, location, entertainment, and menu all received comprehensive study and discussion. Adelaide dispensed advice on how easily an idea could be implemented and how each choice would affect the guests, but Isabella made the final decisions.
Adelaide glanced up from her desk to
check her student’s progress. Isabella’s mouth twisted in concentration as she splashed her brush into a puddle of blue watercolor paint before returning it to the half-finished sky on the paper in front of her. Three similar paintings sat drying in the windowsill. Each depicted two sheep— one fat and fluffy, one shorn and skinny with a red W on its hip. A bright summer sky streaked across the top of the page, but the bottom remained void of color. Adelaide would pen the invitation message in that space once the pictures were dry. If all went according to plan, Isabella should be able to deliver her unique offerings to those on her guest list after supper.
Adelaide turned back to her own work, rereading the latest version of that all-important message. She had written the thing three times and still found it lacking. How did one compose an invitation formal enough for an English nobleman yet colloquial enough for a sheep herder? Her etiquette classes hadn’t prepared her for this scenario.
The crinkle of paper waving against air saved her from further mental deliberation. Glad for the distraction, Adelaide rose to meet Isabella as she carried her final piece of artwork to the window.
“These look wonderful, Izzy.”
Isabella grinned up at her teacher.
“One for Chalmers and Mrs. Chalmers, one for Mrs. Garrett, one for Miguel, and of course, one for your father. Excellent.”
“Shhh!”
It wasn’t speaking, exactly, but the sound warmed Adelaide’s heart anyway. Isabella had begun bending her own rules. She’d laughed, grunted, and even whined a time or two. Now she shushed. No decipherable words, yet each verbalization raised Adelaide’s hopes that speech would follow someday soon.
Doing her best to act as if nothing momentous had occurred, Adelaide patted the child’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. The door is closed. Our secret is safe. Mrs. Garrett is the only one who knows of our party plans, since we gave her our menu yesterday, but I doubt she expects to receive an invitation. All of your guests are sure to be surprised.”
Isabella pointed at her shearing pictures and then waved her hand behind her, which usually meant finished. Then she looked at Adelaide with raised brows, indicating a question. Usually Adelaide understood her signals quite well, but this one stumped her.
“Are you asking if you can take a break since you finished your painting?”
Her charge shook her head and frowned. She repeated the motions and Adelaide searched for another possible meaning.
“Are you asking if the shearing is over?”
The girl didn’t nod, but she jutted out her chin and found a way to arch her brows even higher. Adelaide figured she was on the right track.
“Yes, the crew left on Monday, remember? The freighters carted the wool off yesterday to the warehouse in San Antonio.”
Isabella stamped her foot and a low growl reverberated in her throat. She stabbed a finger at the invitations again.
“Something about the party?”
That got a nod. And a rather exasperated glare. No doubt Isabella thought her as dim-witted as her father’s sheep. Her … father’s … sheep. An idea sprouted.
“Will your father finish with the sheep in time for the party tomorrow?”
Isabella’s arm flopped to her side and she nodded with a large, exaggerated motion, chiding her teacher for taking so long. Adelaide nearly let loose a triumphant whoop at her successful deduction, but she tamped it down. This wasn’t a game of charades after all. That would come tomorrow. This was communication, and she didn’t want to trivialize it. Moving to Isabella’s side, she tucked the girl under her arm and gave her a squeeze.
“I spoke to your father after you went to bed last night. He expects to finish the dipping today and to drive the sheep back out to the upper pasture tomorrow. They should be done in plenty of time to attend your party, and I’m sure they’ll be thrilled by our celebration surprise.”
Some of the stiffness relaxed from Isabella’s shoulders, and Adelaide led her toward the door.
“Now. Even though we are hosting an informal dinner party, it is still important for a hostess to look her best. In this way, she honors her guests and lends an air of sophistication and elegance to the gathering. So, while we wait for your paint to dry, why don’t we go down to your room and choose a dress for you to wear. I’ve laid out my yellow muslin. Maybe you could— Where are you going?”
Isabella had pulled free and darted back into the schoolroom. She dropped to her knees in front of one of the trunks stored along the side wall and unlatched it. Adelaide hurried over to help her lift the lid.
“Do you wish to wear something of your mother’s?” Adelaide peered over the girl’s head as she dug through the contents. “It’s a lovely idea. Maybe a shawl or a special necklace?”
Anticipating a small piece of frippery, Adelaide had to blink several times to make sure her eyes were working properly when Isabella carefully extracted a mound of satin and lace. The child held it out to her, and Adelaide felt the air rush from her lungs. A ball gown. A romantic, fit-for-a-princess, yellow ball gown. The delicate, straw-colored bodice beckoned her closer. Unable to resist, Adelaide ran her fingertips across the ribbon leaves and silk rosettes that trimmed the over-the-shoulder neckline.
The weight of the fabric grew too heavy for Isabella, and the dress began to slide to the floor. Adelaide leapt to the rescue, grabbing hold of the bodice with both hands and hoisting it high. A slender sheath of ivory lace cascaded before her. Clusters of golden roses set against olive leaves decorated the waist and peeked out beneath the draped layers that fell near the hem. If dreams could be sewn into a dress, hers would look like this.
“Oh, Izzy. It’s exquisite. Was this one of your mother’s party gowns?”
Isabella nodded, her eyes alight. She thrust a pair of long ivory gloves at Adelaide.
“Do you want to wear those?” Adelaide winked at her charge. “You could probably pull them up to your shoulders. Why don’t you pick a pretty ribbon I can plait into your hair instead?”
Adelaide set the gloves on top of the trunk lid, and with a stern lecture to her heart about not wishing for things beyond her grasp, she gathered the skirt of the dress and began to fold the lacy fabric. It seemed a shame to pack such loveliness away, but it had to be done. Perhaps one day Isabella would wear it to a grand ball and meet her own dashing hero. Just as the image of a grown-up Isabella waltzed across her mind in the arms of a faceless gentleman, the not-so-grown-up version yanked the dress out of her hands.
“What are you do—” Adelaide’s voice cut off as two small hands crashed into her ribcage. The pounding temporarily stole her breath, but when she saw that Isabella held the gown up to her body like a miniature dressmaker ready to commence a fitting, her breath faltered for an entirely different reason.
“You want me to wear your mother’s dress?”
Isabella’s head bobbed up and down, and Adelaide’s heart tripped over itself. Wearing that dress would be like living out her own fairy tale, but it was too extravagant for their simple party and too sentimental for Isabella to loan out on a whim.
What if she spilled something on it or ripped the fragile lace on the heel of her shoe? No. She couldn’t accept. Besides, it was at least three inches too long for her.
“It’s a very kind gesture, Izzy, but I couldn’t. I—”
The girl slammed the dress into her chest again, her pink lips puckered in a scowl. Adelaide couldn’t find the strength to refuse a second time.
“All right.” She collected the dress from Isabella and arranged it in her arms so it wouldn’t crease. Then she waved the girl back toward the trunk. “But only if you find something equally lovely to wear. Tomorrow is your night to shine as a true Texas princess.”
Later that evening, after the invitations had been distributed and the princess had been put to bed, Adelaide sat at the kitchen table sipping tea with Mrs. Chalmers. Ever since surrendering to the impulse that led her to agree to Isabella’s demand, a growing sense of misgiving had built i
nside her. What had she been thinking?
Well … she knew what she’d been thinking. She’d been thinking how much she wanted to wear that dress. To go to a ball and dance with a handsome prince. Or the son of a baron, as the case may be.
What she hadn’t been thinking was how she would appear to be grasping at things above her station. Or worse, how her careless whim could wound Gideon. The dress belonged to his first wife. His recently deceased first wife. If she came traipsing down the stairs in his wife’s dress, it would surely spawn a flood of painful memories. Would he fly into a rage? Or hide his pain behind those marvelous dimples, all while dying inside?
Would he compare her to the woman he’d lost and find her wanting?
Adelaide sighed. Circling the rim of her teacup with the tip of her finger, she stared into the brown depths, searching for a way out of the bind she’d placed herself in.
“Tired, dear?” Mrs. Chalmers smiled sympathetically over the edge of her cup.
“Yes, but that’s not what has me fretting.”
Mrs. Chalmers set her tea aside. “Can I help?”
Adelaide looked up at the kind woman, the urge to unload her burden nearly overwhelming. “I made a promise to Isabella without thinking things through, and now I’m stuck.”
The housekeeper’s face remained blessedly placid. “Go on.”
“We were looking through the trunks in the attic, searching for something that had belonged to Isabella’s mother that she could wear to the party. She pulled out a lovely ball gown and shoved it at me like she wanted me to wear it. I tried to refuse, but she insisted until I gave in.”
“I don’t see any harm in that. Those things belong to Isabella now. If she wants you to wear the dress, there shouldn’t be a problem.”
“But what about Mr. Westcott?” Adelaide propped her elbow on the table and shielded her face with her hand. “Surely he would think me presumptuous or even cruel to wear his late wife’s things without asking his permission. I can’t risk causing him pain or earning his wrath after he has welcomed me into his home and treated me with such consideration.”
Head in the Clouds Page 13
