Courting Trouble

by Deeanne Gist

  chapter TWENTY-THREE

  ESSIE COULD NOT SIT still. She paced round and round the perimeter of her room, stunned at her parents’ maneuverings. Papa should never have accepted Ewing’s request. It was nothing short of dishonest.

  In her heart of hearts, she still wanted to marry and have children, but she knew that was no longer a possibility. No matter what Mother and Papa thought, no decent man—especially not a preacher—would want a woman who’d lain with another.

  She stopped at her window, looking out at the myriad of leaves covering the ground. What on earth was she going to do? If she outright refused to accompany him today as she threatened, he’d no doubt take it personally. She didn’t want to hurt Ewing’s feelings. Nor did she want to encourage him.

  Papa had said Ewing came back for her. All the way from Nashville. She shook her head. He’d hung on to his feelings for her all this time? It was simply too preposterous to comprehend.

  She began to circle her room again. Finally she decided she would go on that ride today. And she would tell Ewing the truth. About her and about Adam. She would not wait as her parents suggested.

  And after that, perhaps Papa would think twice about granting anyone permission to court her. Not that anyone would be asking.

  Sighing, she went to her wardrobe and tried to decide what a woman should wear on her first outing with a man who was about to be given the shock of his life.

  ————

  At five o’clock, Essie opened her door, stepped to the top of the stairs, and made her way down. Papa stood at the entryway with Ewing. Both turned when they heard her descending.

  Papa looked ready to collapse with relief.

  Ewing looked like Harley when someone gave him a sarsaparilla. ‘‘Hello, Essie,’’ he said.

  ‘‘Ewing,’’ she responded. His clay worsted frock coat was a perfectly respectable jacket but would have been better suited to someone with more height, what with its hem coming down to his knees and all.

  ‘‘You look lovely,’’ he said.

  She tugged on the edge of her carriage cloak. The black satin was trimmed with black marten fur that descended down the front and about the hem like a round boa. Rather than a hat, she wore a simple beaded clip above her Empire twist.

  He held out a bouquet of white chrysanthemums.

  It was the first time in her life a man had brought her flowers. She faltered. ‘‘Oh. My goodness. Why, thank you. I . . . well, how very thoughtful. Thank you.’’

  ‘‘You’re welcome.’’

  She touched her nose to the flowers, inhaling their light, refreshing scent.

  ‘‘Here, my dear,’’ Mother said, joining them. ‘‘Shall I put those in some water for you?’’

  ‘‘Yes, please.’’

  Ewing made a small bow. ‘‘Good evening, Mrs. Spreckelmeyer.’’

  ‘‘Hello, Ewing. It’s good to see you again. Welcome home.’’

  ‘‘Thank you, ma’am.’’

  The four of them stood in the foyer, awkward and uncertain.

  Ewing put his hat on. ‘‘Shall we go?’’

  He held out his arm. Essie placed hers atop it, feeling like an actress in a performance.

  ‘‘I’ll have her home before dark, sir,’’ he said to Papa, then they stepped out of the house and headed to the fence where his rig was waiting.

  She was surprised to see it was an actual top buggy as opposed to a road wagon and wondered if the church had given him an advance on his salary. He placed a hand beneath her elbow and helped her up before moving around to his side of the rig. The seat creaked and tilted when he pulled himself up.

  He did not reach for the reins right away but instead sat looking at her, a smile on his face. ‘‘I can’t believe I am here, with you, in this carriage. I cannot tell you how many times I have dreamed of this moment.’’

  She flushed, knowing she’d had no such longings for him.

  He searched her eyes. ‘‘You take my breath away. You always have. Did you know that?’’

  No.

  ‘‘I know you’d probably rather go fishing than riding in a carriage, but now that we’re courting, I don’t think it would be wise. I’m afraid being alone together like that might damage your reputation.’’

  She gave him a weak smile, wondering if there had been some gossip to prompt his statement. Gossip from Katherine Crook, perhaps?

  ‘‘Well,’’ he said, rubbing his thighs, ‘‘I suppose we ought to get going.’’

  He unwound the reins, gave the horse a ‘‘giddy-up’’ and headed toward downtown. His gift of gab had been perfected and honed over the years he’d been gone. He elaborated on his letters, entertaining her with stories of his train rides to and from Tennessee, his adjustment to living so far from home, and the pranks he and his schoolmates had played upon one another. She’d never dreamed Bible college could be so rambunctious.

  The familiarity the two of them had shared as children made a resurgence, but this time she found herself laughing and chattering and teasing. They’d circled all the way through town before she even took note of her surroundings. Once she did, however, she became conscious of the townsfolk.

  They openly stared. What on earth was an old maid like her doing with a youth like Ewing? That’s what they were wondering, she knew. Her cheeks burned under the scrutiny, and she couldn’t bring herself to meet their gazes.

  As the buggy swayed, the two of them inched unconsciously toward the center of the bench, until finally their shoulders touched. Shocked by the contact, Essie reached for the wing and pulled herself to her side of the seat.

  He pinched a corner of her cloak and tugged it softly toward him. ‘‘Where ya going?’’

  ‘‘We were, I didn’t realize—’’

  ‘‘I did. And it was nice.’’

  ‘‘Ewing, I . . . well . . .’’ She sighed. How in the world did you tell a man you’d been ruined and he ought to turn his attentions elsewhere? She couldn’t exactly blurt it out right here in the middle of town.

  ‘‘Let go, Essie,’’ he said, his voice quiet, persuasive, full of invitation.

  She didn’t answer, just intensified her grip on the arm rail.

  ‘‘Don’t be scared.’’

  ‘‘I’m not scared.’’

  ‘‘You look scared.’’

  ‘‘Well, I’m not.’’ She turned her attention to the street and saw Mrs. Lockhart standing on the walkway, handkerchief in hand. She waved it at Essie, a delighted smile on her face, a knowing look in her eyes.

  Good heavens. ‘‘I’m ready to go home now, please.’’

  ‘‘What’s the matter?’’

  ‘‘Nothing.’’

  ‘‘No, it’s something. What is it?’’

  She tucked her chin.

  The next opportunity he had, he guided the buggy in a northwesterly direction, pointing them toward home. The route took them right past the Merchants’ Opera House.

  The orchestra gathered at the grand entry, and Essie realized with a start that it must be ten-cent night. She remembered the way the ‘‘society belle’’ had flashed her ankle and bare foot in front of the braying crowd, and how she’d allowed Adam to embrace her in the balcony. Then kiss her, touch her. Were his intentions dishonorable even back then?

  They reached the railroad tracks on the edge of town, but instead of turning north, Ewing prodded the horse to cross them.

  ‘‘Where are we going?’’ she asked.

  ‘‘Somewhere we can talk.’’

  ‘‘I thought you said we needed to avoid being alone.’’

  ‘‘We do, but there’s something wrong and whatever it is, I don’t want to sort it out on your front porch with all the windows open.’’

  She made no protest, for she, too, abhorred the thought of telling him about her sordid past within earshot of her parents. That he could read her so well was unsettling and comforting all at the same time.

  They traveled in silence, twilight beginning
to fall. With its approach came the sounds of nature and her inhabitants—some preparing for bed, others just awakening. He turned into an unobtrusive break in the tangled growth that lined the road. It quickly led them to a copse of trees just wide and long enough to completely conceal their vehicle from casual passersby.

  ‘‘Whoa,’’ he said, stopping the horse.

  In front of them was an opening that overlooked a pond she’d fished at many a time. Yet she had never noticed this spot. A spot perfect for lovers who did not want to be discovered.

  ‘‘You’ve been here before,’’ she said.

  He turned. ‘‘Is that an accusation?’’

  ‘‘No! No, of course not. Just an observation, I suppose.’’

  He wrapped the reins around the dash rail, then rested his elbows on his knees. Bullfrogs made their low, vibrant call of jug-o-rum, jug-o-rum. Crickets buzzed and trilled. A gathering of ducks squawked, loud and out of sync.

  She moistened her lips, having no idea where to begin.

  ‘‘Are you angry with me?’’ Ewing asked.

  ‘‘No,’’ she whispered. ‘‘Not at all.’’

  ‘‘Then what’s the matter?’’

  The pond picked up the pinks and purples touching the sky and duplicated them on its shimmery surface.

  ‘‘Ewing, I . . .’’

  He studied his fingernails. ‘‘You don’t like me.’’

  ‘‘No, no. I do, I like you just fine, but . . .’’

  ‘‘But what?’’

  ‘‘But Papa has not been completely honest with you.’’

  He sat up, frowning. ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘He should never have granted you permission to court me. He should never grant permission for anyone to court me.’’

  Confusion traveled across his features before alarm replaced it. ‘‘Essie, are you ill? Are you . . . dying?’’

  ‘‘No, no.’’ She shook her head. ‘‘Nothing like that.’’

  ‘‘Then, what?’’

  O Lord, help me. Her throat filled, requiring force to push the words out. ‘‘I am not marriageable, Ewing. Not to you, not to anyone.’’

  He grasped both her hands and turned her toward him. ‘‘You are barren?’’

  She slid her eyes closed and shook her head.

  He briefly tightened his hold. ‘‘If you aren’t dying and you aren’t barren, then what are you?’’

  ‘‘Ruined,’’ she choked, a tear splashing onto their intertwined hands.

  His grip relaxed, then withdrew.

  She couldn’t bring herself to look at him at first. But she decided that, whatever else she might be, she was no coward. She wiped the tear from her cheek and lifted her gaze—only to wish she hadn’t.

  His jaw was tight with shock, a tremor running under his skin. Courting Trouble His eyes sparkled dully, like they’d been forced to see too much and then had stopped seeing altogether.

  He looked away, running a hand over his mouth. His Adam’s apple bobbed. He stared at the pond as if mesmerized. ‘‘Who all knows?’’

  ‘‘My parents and the sheriff.’’

  ‘‘No one else?’’

  ‘‘No one else.’’

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘‘Do I know him? Is he someone I will see at church, at the store, at the club?’’

  ‘‘No. You never knew him.’’

  ‘‘Was it the drifter?’’

  She sucked in her breath but said nothing. Finally she touched his sleeve. ‘‘I’m sorry.’’

  He jerked away from her touch. ‘‘I waited for you, Essie,’’ he said, anguish coating his words. ‘‘Do you have any idea how many opportunities I’ve had to be with other women? Yet I never betrayed you. Not once. I held myself back. For you. For us.’’

  ‘‘I didn’t know,’’ she said, the tears coming more rapidly now. ‘‘We had no understanding between us.’’

  ‘‘You shouldn’t need one. You should have waited on principle alone for whatever man God had for you.’’

  ‘‘I know, I know. I’m sorry.’’

  He jumped from the buggy, striding down the slope to the pond, kicking a log here, a rock there. At the bottom of the hill, he plopped down and propped his head in his hands. She watched his shoulders bounce.

  I’m sorry, Ewing. I’m sorry, Lord. It wasn’t worth it. The few moments of bliss I shared with Adam, they weren’t worth all the torment I have caused my parents, my friend, myself, and you. Oh, if I could do it over, I would make a much different choice. Forgive me, Lord. Forgive me.

  But even if He granted such a thing, she would never forgive herself.

  It was dark before Ewing climbed back up the hill and joined her in the carriage. She could no longer see his face, but the stiffness in his body spoke for itself.

  He drove her home with unbearable slowness, keeping the buggy at a sedate and calm pace. He didn’t say a word to her or even glance her way. She kept religiously to her side of the seat. When they finally pulled up in front of her house, she prepared to jump down.

  He touched her arm. ‘‘No.’’

  He circled around and helped her to the ground, then took her elbow and walked her clear to the door.

  ‘‘Good night, Essie,’’ he said in a pleasant voice plenty loud enough to be heard through the windows.

  ‘‘Good-bye,’’ she whispered.

  He tipped his hat and returned to the rig.

  Papa was standing in front of his office door when she entered. ‘‘He said he would have you home before dark. Where have you been?’’

  Resentment surged through her, momentarily overshadowing her fragile bid toward repentance. ‘‘Where do you think I’ve been?’’

  ‘‘I have no idea.’’

  She released the ties of her cloak, letting him think what he would.

  ‘‘What is it?’’ Mother asked, stepping into the hall. ‘‘Has something happened?’’

  ‘‘I told him.’’

  She hurried forward. ‘‘What do you mean, you told him?’’

  ‘‘I mean, I told him.’’ Essie looked her father in the eye. ‘‘I told him I was ruined.’’

  Mother gasped. ‘‘You didn’t.’’

  ‘‘I did.’’

  ‘‘Why on earth would you do such a thing?’’

  Instead of answering, she slipped off her cloak, smoothed it over her arm, then returned her attention to Papa. ‘‘Do not accept another request for courtship on my behalf. I will never marry and I do not want to have to go through something like that ever again.’’

  ————

  Katherine Crook knelt beside a bucket of oatmeal, carefully packing a half-dozen eggs inside. Lizzie was a careless girl, and Katherine didn’t want the eggs to crack before they made it home to the child’s mother. She glanced up when Hamilton entered the storage room and lifted the long, wooden bar from their barn-like door.

  ‘‘Quickly,’’ he said, ‘‘Mrs. Bogart has brought in a box of butter, but I need to receive a delivery.’’

  Katherine placed the final egg in the bucket, then scrambled to her feet. The preacher’s wife made the best butter for miles around. Not every woman scrubbed her churn out before each use or washed the buttermilk out of the butter. Mrs. Bogart not only did that but she also churned her butter twice a week while the cream was still fresh. Her trays would sell for double the normal price before the day was through.

  Brushing oatmeal off her hands, Katherine picked up the bucket and entered the store. ‘‘Here are your eggs, Lizzie.’’

  ‘‘Thank you, ma’am.’’

  She nodded to the girl, then made her way to the preacher’s wife, who had placed her butter chest on the counter.

  ‘‘Good morning, Mrs. Bogart. How are you?’’

  The elderly woman’s face and chin above her collar held as many wrinkles and sags as a mastiff. Her eyes were barely visible beneath the folds of her skin, but her smile was warm as ever. ‘‘I’m fine, dear.

  Ho
w is that beautiful baby?’’

  ‘‘Growing every day.’’

  ‘‘I’ll just bet she is.’’

  Katherine opened the chest and began to remove trays of butter from inside. Each tray was dovetailed together and made with white wood, which kept its contents free from taint or smell. ‘‘I heard Preacher Bogart will be retiring soon?’’

  The woman rested her clasped, gloved hands against her waist. ‘‘Yes. I still can’t quite believe it.’’

  ‘‘How long has Preacher Bogart been at the pulpit?’’

  ‘‘Nearly fifty years now. And did you know that the young man the elders are bringing in as our new shepherd is barely out of school?’’

  ‘‘No. I hadn’t heard a thing. Who is it?’’

  ‘‘Ewing Wortham. The son of the couple who run the orphanage?’’

  Katherine hesitated. ‘‘Yes, of course. I met him for the first time last week.’’

  Mrs. Bogart tugged a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. ‘‘I just don’t know how in the world I’ll be able to sit in those pews and listen to someone my grandson’s age give the message.’’ She shook her head, sending the flaps along her chin to swinging. ‘‘I can’t imagine what the elders were thinking to entrust our flock to such an untried fellow. Can you?’’

  Katherine covered the woman’s hand and squeezed. ‘‘I cannot. And a couple of days ago I saw him driving Essie Spreckelmeyer through town. He’s not thinking to court her, is he?’’

  A poignant smile stacked the wrinkles on each side of Mrs. Bogart’s mouth. ‘‘If he is, that is his saving grace. Anyone smart enough to snatch up that sweet little thing clearly has more intelligence than most of the other men in this town.’’

  Katherine stiffened. Was that a hidden inference to Hamilton? She was so tired of hearing people speak of Essie with such regard. Oh, many made remarks about her choice of hats and her fancy attire and her penchant for pursuits more suited to men. But there were many more—including her husband—who were quick to defend the brazen woman, and Katherine had had about all she could take.

  She closed the chest and opened their accounting book. ‘‘Well, I wouldn’t say this to just anyone, but I’d hate for young Mr. Wortham to assume such an important position in town, only to find out he’d been led astray by the woman he was considering for marriage.’’