by Dorothy Love
This morning she’d been the first one up and out the door. Nate was due home on the afternoon train, and she wanted the shop to look perfect. She puttered around dusting shelves that were not really dusty, going over the accounts that were already up-to-date—each transaction recorded in her own neat script—and hoping for customers. Helping them with their reading selections would surely make the time pass faster. But the shop remained empty all morning, the afternoon came and went, and still Nate hadn’t returned.
Passing the mercantile on her way home, she nodded to a couple of women just exiting the store, their arms laden with packages. Surely Nate would return in time for dinner. Perhaps they’d splurge and go to the inn for steak and potatoes and his favorite lemon pie. Afterward she’d surprise him by setting a date for their wedding. Imagining his look of happy surprise brought a smile to her face. Now that she had made up her mind, let go of her girlish fantasies, she was eager to set her plans in motion.
She entered the Verandah just as the evening train arrived, the sharp sound of the whistle reverberating in the quiet streets. She called a greeting to Mrs. Whitcomb and mounted the steps to her room with the odd feeling that something was amiss. The hotel was too quiet—no muffled talk coming from the room of the Provost sisters, no Lucy pounding down the stairs, no Rosaleen dealing cards in the parlor. It was as if the entire place was holding its breath.
She shook her head to clear her apprehensions. She was merely overly excited, maybe even a bit nervous, awaiting the chance to tell Nate of her decision. When he got back, the old hotel would breathe again.
She tidied her hair, splashed a bit of lavender water onto her neck, and sank into her chair beside the window. The smell of boiling turnip greens and frying fatback drifted up the stairs, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten anything since her two biscuits with jam at breakfast. Her stomach rumbled, but the prospect of more of Mrs. Whitcomb’s food wasn’t enough to rouse her from her chair.
Shouts and footsteps sounded in the street below. A woman laughed. Someone began singing loudly and slightly off key. A glass shattered. Carrie parted the curtain. Mill hands, no doubt, with a little too much liquor in their bellies.
Then the Verandah’s front door crashed open, and Mrs. Whitcomb let out a surprised yelp. Carrie rushed down the stairs. When she reached the landing, she stopped stock-still, her skirt swirling about her ankles. She clutched the newel post, her heart kicking.
Nate Chastain strode into the foyer. Behind him, wearing a shimmering pink dress and a triumphant smile, stood Rosaleen.
THIRTEEN
Griff scrawled his signature at the bottom of the bank draft and sealed it for mailing. The Pinkertons’ fee for finding Rosaleen had taken a healthy bite from his funds, and in the end he had forgiven the debt he’d come here to collect. What was the matter with him? Maybe he was losing the granite-hard resolve that had for so long served him well.
He collected his gloves, hat, and a couple of the sugar cubes he kept as special treats for Majestic. The train whistle emitted two short blasts, and he thought again of his brother’s surprise announcement. Though marrying anyone merely to increase the Rutledges’ land holdings was utterly ridiculous, he envied Philip. His brother would have a family. Somewhere to belong. Everything Griff had rejected in order to pursue life on his own terms.
He hadn’t thought of Susan Layton in years. She wasn’t a beauty. Her chin was too weak, her eyes too round and too prominent. But she had a trim, womanly shape, a sweet disposition, and a ready laugh. Like most young girls of her class, she’d been educated in the finer points of etiquette. She knew which fork was for pickles and which for fowl and how to chatter on for hours and hours about nothing more consequential than the weather. She had been taught to refrain from expressing her opinions, to be subservient to her man, dutiful in every way. Philip would have little cause for complaint. But what on earth would the two of them talk about?
He picked up his key and headed for the door. When his father had first broached the subject of Griff’s marriage to Susan, Griff simply had not been able to imagine twenty, thirty, perhaps forty years of sitting opposite her at the dinner table with little more to say than “pass the salt” and “do you suppose it might rain?” He wanted a woman who shared his curiosity about the world, who knew what she thought about things and wasn’t afraid to express it. Someone as open, as warm, and yes, as headstrong and opinionated as Carrie Daly.
He grinned to himself. She’d held her tongue when Nate Chastain had spoken for her that day in the bookshop, but just barely.
Even if she weren’t promised to the bookseller, though, he had little to offer her. It might be months, a year perhaps, before things were sorted out at his bank in London and he had access to his funds. In the meantime, all she could look forward to was life in a series of hotel rooms, their fortunes dependent on whatever job he could find to supplement his dwindling bank account. She deserved better that that. Much better.
Downstairs, he nodded to the room clerk and headed for the post office. Maybe it was for the best. Maybe his father was right and Griff was not the marrying kind.
“Carrie girl.”
Carrie stood still as death on the landing, staring down at Nate and Rosaleen. Above her, the ancient Provost sisters peered over the stair railing, each of them clutching a fan, cheeks bulging with dips of snuff. One of them rasped her name, but she had gone numb.
Mrs. Whitcomb hurried into the parlor, wiping her hands on her apron, her eyes hard as stones. “Rosaleen Dupree, where in the world have you been?”
Rosaleen laughed and tucked her hand into the crook of Nate’s arm. “I’ve been to Chicago. And it’s Mrs. Chastain now.”
“Good heavens. You’re married?”
Carrie sank onto the carpeted stair and wrapped her arms around her knees. The room swam before her eyes. Nate, married? To Rosaleen? It couldn’t be true. And yet there he was, blushing and laughing as his new wife teased him before turning her attention to Mrs. Whitcomb, regaling her with details of the train trip, the ceremony in the judge’s study, and their brief honeymoon stay at an elegant Chicago hotel.
Nate climbed the stairs and sat down beside Carrie, bringing with him the scents of cologne and whisky. He reached for her hand, but she pulled back as if the touch of his skin would burn her. How could he claim to have loved her and still be so careless of her feelings?
Humiliation, regret, and profound sadness overwhelmed her. Lately she had felt adrift in the world, with Nate as her only real tether. Now that tether had snapped. Yet who was to blame except her? If only she’d taken Ada’s advice and married Nate when she had the chance.
“I know you’re shocked,” Nate said, his voice low. “And I’m awfully sorry to break the news like this. I’d planned on being back here sooner, having some time to talk to you before we made our announcement. But we were delayed in Chicago and—”
“You don’t have to explain.”
“Yes, I do. Please try to see things from my side. Lord knows, I don’t want to hurt you. You’re the finest woman I’ve ever known. But I’ve wanted a wife and a home of my own for the longest time, and it seemed like you weren’t ever going to be ready.”
She traced the dark floral pattern on the carpet with her fingers. She had been ready to name a date, but what good would it do to tell him now? She studied his face, so dear to her and, at the same time, unknowable. She would have wagered her very life on his affection for her, but in the end he hadn’t loved her enough to wait until she was sure.
“Carrie?” Nate’s expression was a mixture of sadness and uncertainty. “Say something.”
“I’m . . . stunned. I thought you loved me. I never dreamed you could change your allegiance so easily.”
He blushed. “It caught me by surprise too.”
Mrs. Whitcomb and Rosaleen headed for the kitchen. For several long minutes Carrie sat beside Nate, listening to the street sounds and the tapping of a tree branch against the parlor wind
ows. Now that reality was slowly sinking in, she felt oddly calm and resigned. Maybe God had another plan in mind for her, one that didn’t include a husband and a home. Just last week Reverend Patterson’s sermon had been about surrendering to God’s will. His way was surely the best. And yet, she was a flawed mortal who wanted what she wanted. And what she wanted always seemed to lie just beyond her reach.
Nate cleared his throat. “You’re a fine woman, Carrie. But Rosaleen came along, and we got on so well together that it just seemed like it was meant to be, and . . .”
She laid a hand gently on his arm. “Congratulations, Nate. I truly hope you’ll be happy. You deserve it.”
“You’re not angry with me?”
“I suppose I can’t blame you for giving up on me.” She managed a wan smile. “I’m confused. About a lot of things. But I’m not angry with you. What good would it do?”
He relaxed then. “I’m glad.”
“I am surprised that you went all the way to Chicago when Reverend Patterson could have married you right here.”
“That was Rosaleen’s idea.”
“I’m sure.”
“She wanted a nice honeymoon away from people who might gossip about the two of us. How sudden it was and all.”
“Don’t think people won’t talk now. They will. But you mustn’t let it ruin your happiness.”
Nate squeezed her hand. “I’ve never had a better friend than you.”
“I feel the same. Maybe we were meant to be friends and not husband and wife.”
“I sure hope the two don’t turn out to be mutually exclusive. I reckon it’d be hard to go through life married to someone you didn’t like.” He shifted his weight on the narrow stair. “This doesn’t have to change things at the shop, you know. You can go on working there, just as before. Only now we’ll have Rosaleen to help too.”
Carrie stared at him. It was the situation with Mary Stanhope all over again. Husbands and wives building their lives two by two, and Carrie the odd one out. “I don’t think so,” she said. “Having two women in charge of anything never works out very well.”
“But Rosaleen doesn’t know anything about running a bookshop. I thought you could teach her.”
“You can teach her what she needs to know.”
“What about your ladies’ book society?”
“It wasn’t much of a success.” The realization still stung. She felt as if the women of Hickory Ridge had rejected her, not just her idea.
“But it might catch on,” Nate said, “if you stick with it.”
Just then Rosaleen crossed the parlor and hurried up the stairs, her pink skirts rustling. She nodded to Carrie and smiled at Nate. “I’m going up to pack the rest of my things. I won’t be long.”
Nate beamed at his bride. “Take your time, my dear.”
Though Carrie was quickly becoming resigned to the situation, hearing Nate’s endearment and seeing the adoring way he and Rosaleen looked at each other was more than she could take. She got to her feet. “I must help Mrs. Whitcomb.”
He rose. “Carrie—”
“I left a few of my things at the shop. I’ll get them in the morning.”
“I know this has been a shock. But I wish you’d take some time to reconsider.”
“I could think on it a hundred years, but I won’t change my mind.”
“How will you earn a living?” Nate asked.
“I still have a few dollars. Now that Rosaleen won’t be living here, perhaps I can work for Mrs. Whitcomb. She plans to fix the place up before the Race Day visitors hit town. She’ll need help with scrubbing floors and washing curtains.”
“Such work is necessary, but it’s a waste of your intelligence.”
She shrugged. “It’s honest labor, no different than working the farm. Besides, with so many people around here out of work, I’ll be thankful to have anything.”
“True enough, I reckon. I heard your brother went up north to look for a job. How’s he getting on? Any luck?”
Rosaleen appeared above them dragging a battered trunk and a smaller suitcase. “Nate honey, can you give me a hand?”
“Coming, sweetheart.”
Nate bounded up the stairs, grabbed the luggage, and bumped it down the stairs. Rosaleen followed. When she reached Carrie, she put one arm about Carrie’s shoulders and whispered, “I’m so sorry.”
“Are you?” She and Rosaleen weren’t exactly friends, but Carrie still felt betrayed. Had Rosaleen talked about her to Nate? Had they laughed about her together? Did Rosaleen feel sorry for her, the jilted would-be bride, or did she feel only triumph at having so easily stolen Nate away?
Carrie watched them leave the hotel. Arms akimbo, Mrs. Whitcomb turned to Carrie. “If this isn’t a fine kettle of fish. I can’t imagine what in the world possessed Nate Chastain. I thought the two of you were . . .”
Carrie shook her head. If she tired to speak, she might cry. And what use were tears?
“It don’t make a lick of sense if you ask me.” Mrs. Whitcomb made a tsk-tsk sound. “Well, I reckon it’s not for me and you to figure out. God moves in mysterious ways, and this marriage surely must be the mystery of the ages.”
Before Carrie could reply, Rachel Ryan hurried into the hotel, her eyes shining. “They did it. They actually eloped, and nobody suspected a thing.”
Mrs. Whitcomb frowned. “What do you know about this deception?”
Rachel grinned. “It was just about the most romantic thing I ever heard. I had to help. So I made up the story about needing a new dress to cover for Rosaleen while she caught the train. It wasn’t easy, slipping in and out all weekend, pretending she was here when she really wasn’t. But we fooled everybody.”
“You certainly did.” Carrie turned. “Excuse me. I’m going up to my room.”
“What’s the matter with . . . oh mercy.” Rachel clapped one hand over her mouth. “Carrie. I—you must feel simply awful! I never meant to—” Red-faced, she turned and fled.
“You haven’t had any supper, Carrie.” Mrs. Whitcomb put one arm around Carrie’s shoulder. “I made a fresh batch of biscuits, and there’s some ham left over from yesterday.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Listen to me. This has been a shock, no two ways about it. But you must put your trust in the Lord. He always knows what’s best for us, child, even when we think we know better.”
“I know that.” Hadn’t her long-departed grandmother said the same thing?
Granny Bell had rarely ventured from her mountain cabin on the far side of Muddy Hollow. Small, wiry, and tough as a pine knot, she’d never learned to read or write, but she’d been a wellspring of common sense and unshakable faith. “The Lord knows what he’s doing, girl. He’s the One that sees the big picture. Best wait on him to make the path clear.”
Carrie shrugged. Her own path seemed murkier than ever now.
“Please excuse me.” She climbed the stairs to her room just as the train whistle shrieked. She sank onto her bed and closed her eyes. Henry was gone, swallowed up in the grit and noise of Chicago, and angry with her. And now Nate was lost to her too.
How much more disappointment and sadness can I take, dear Lord? If you have something better in mind, could you please let me in on it?
And soon?
FOURTEEN
In the small storeroom at the back of the bookshop, Carrie found an empty crate. She carried it to the front and set it on the counter. The sun came up, sending shafts of late August light through the closed curtains. Outside, except for the occasional passing rig or wagon, the street was quiet.
Moving quickly around the now-familiar shop, Carrie gathered the personal items that had accumulated since she’d come to work here—a lace fan, an umbrella, a chipped coffee cup. She intended to be long gone before Nate and Rosaleen arrived. Seeing the two of them together would be too awkward. It would hurt too much and feel like an intrusion upon their newly wedded bliss.
India vaulted onto the counte
r and poked her nose into the crate, meowing loudly. Carrie scooped up the cat and nuzzled her face. “I know, sweet girl. I’ll miss you too.”
Setting India on her feet, Carrie packed away the list of books she’d planned to recommend to the book society and a small leather-bound journal she’d been too busy to keep. India followed, mewing, her tail straight up in the air.
Carrie took one last look around, feeling as if she were once again leaving home, giving up something she’d had a part in building. Of course she could visit the shop anytime, but it would never be the same.
“Good-bye,” she whispered to India. She lifted the crate and carried it outside, closing the door behind her. Blinded by tears, she ran smack into a man hurrying along the street, a bundle of clean laundry tucked beneath his arm.
“Oh, I’m so sor—mercy’s sake. Mr. Rutledge.”
The horse tamer touched the brim of his hat and smiled down at her. “Good morning, Mrs. Daly. You’re up and about early.”
She shifted the crate. “I’m moving these things to the Verandah.”
“Is that so? It seems that every time we meet, you’re moving somewhere.” He grinned. “The proverbial rolling stone.”
Her breath caught. Heavenly days, why did he have to look so utterly charming at such an early hour? The attraction she’d felt for him from the very beginning rushed over her like a rogue wave. Carrie felt herself smiling. “It does seem that way.”
“Allow me.” He reached for her crate and placed his bundle of laundry on top.
“That’s kind of you, but I can manage.”
“I’m afraid I must insist. How would it look if people saw me letting you tote your own things?”
“Very well. If it’s a matter of preserving your reputation.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “I’m afraid it’s much too late to worry about my reputation. I’m a lost cause.”
