Courting Trouble

by Deeanne Gist

  ‘‘It’s Ewing,’’ Mother said, returning to the kitchen after answering the door. ‘‘He’s in the parlor, waiting for you.’’

  Essie slowly removed the apron from around her waist. It was all well and good for her to give up her wants and needs to the Lord. It was something totally different to refuse Ewing his.

  She re-pinned a loose piece of hair. How on earth would she tell him she couldn’t marry him? Especially after he’d extended her such grace?

  He’d be so hurt. And she knew all too well what that particular kind of hurt and rejection felt like.

  Yet she also knew that if she tried not to hurt him, she’d end up hurting him even more. So she’d have to tell him the truth.

  Still, she couldn’t admit he had been the means to an end for her.

  Though, he had.

  She couldn’t say the Lord had called her to give marriage up as a sacrifice to Him. Though, He had.

  She couldn’t say she wasn’t in love with him. Though, she wasn’t.

  So what could she say? That he was asking her to pretend to be something she was not?

  She shook her head. No. There was nothing. No easy, pat answer she could offer without injury.

  Give me the words, Lord.

  He stopped his pacing when she entered. He’d dressed more casually today in a pair of wool trousers and a navy hand-knit pullover sweater that suited him quite nicely.

  ‘‘Hello,’’ she said.

  ‘‘Hello.’’ He crushed the hat in his hands. ‘‘You look lovely.’’

  She smiled. She’d been filling lamps in the kitchen and wore an ordinary black serge skirt and white shirtwaist. But she could see he meant his words and they warmed her.

  ‘‘Thank you.’’

  ‘‘We need to talk,’’ he prompted.

  ‘‘Yes. Yes, we do. Won’t you sit down?’’

  He joined her on the settee and must have read the distress in her

  ‘‘What is it?’’ he asked. ‘‘What has happened?’’

  ‘‘Ewing, I’m so sorry, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to marry you.’’

  His face registered shock. ‘‘You won’t?’’

  ‘‘It’s nothing you’ve done,’’ she quickly assured him. ‘‘Nothing at all. You have been . . . wonderful to me.’’ She swallowed. ‘‘I just do not have the kind of feelings for you that a bride should have for her groom.’’

  ‘‘You don’t?’’

  She slipped her hand between his clasped ones. ‘‘You are truly one of my dearest and most beloved friends and I treasure you beyond belief, but . . .’’

  ‘‘But. . . ?’’

  ‘‘But,’’ she said, taking a deep breath, ‘‘I don’t think I would make a very good preacher’s wife. I’m too, too . . .’’

  ‘‘Impulsive?’’

  ‘‘Yes. And outdoorsy. And independent. I’m afraid my impetuousness would provide the gossip mill with so much material that it could hurt the church. And you. And your work. I really don’t want to do that.’’

  They sat in silence, the fire in the hearth crackling. The sounds of Mother’s puttering in the kitchen now and again reached them.

  He opened his palm, entwining their fingers together. ‘‘Do you love me, Essie?’’

  ‘‘Yes, of course. But I don’t believe I’m in love with you. And there’s . . . well, there’s a difference.’’

  ‘‘Yes,’’ he whispered, ‘‘there is definitely a difference.’’

  She squeezed his fingers.

  He lifted their interlocked hands, resting his lips upon her knobby knuckles. ‘‘You are an amazing woman.’’

  ‘‘Oh, Ewing.’’

  ‘‘Can I make a confession?’’ he asked.

  Blinking, she nodded.

  ‘‘I think you are right.’’

  She sucked in her breath. ‘‘You do?’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’ He rubbed his cheek with their clasped hands, his closely

  Courting Trouble shaven whiskers like the mildest of sandpaper against her fingers.

  ‘‘Yes, I do. And I would hate to see you have to suppress your vivaciousness. It wouldn’t be right.’’

  ‘‘You aren’t angry with me, then?’’

  ‘‘Not at all.’’ Kissing her knuckles one more time, he swallowed, then relinquished his hold.

  She walked him to the door. ‘‘We can still be friends?’’

  ‘‘Of course,’’ he said, tugging on his gloves. ‘‘I would consider it an honor.’’

  But as she watched him stride down the sidewalk and swing up onto Rosebud, she knew that the relationship they’d shared since childhood would forever be altered.

  ————

  Journal in hand, Essie knocked softly on Papa’s door.

  ‘‘Come in.’’

  She slipped in, then closed the door behind her but did not advance.

  Twilight streamed in from the big bay window, casting shadows about the room. An assortment of rugs covered the polished wooden floor, and a fur skin provided warmth for Papa’s feet. Gilt-backed books lined rows upon rows of shelves without glass or coverings of any kind so Papa could remove his books without key and lock. The uppermost shelves had been designed for easy retrieval of his volumes with an outstretched arm.

  The fire had recently been stoked, combating the end-of-the-day chill brought on by the setting sun and tingeing the air with smoke.

  Papa’s eyes displayed deep circles beneath them. Putting his pen back in its holder, he indicated a chair.

  ‘‘Am I disturbing you?’’ she asked. ‘‘I can return later.’’

  ‘‘No, it’s almost time for supper anyway. What’s on your mind?’’

  Smoothing her skirts beneath her, she sat and addressed the subject she’d not yet broached with him. ‘‘I, um, have a business proposition for you.’’

  ‘‘You may not go back to the oil field, Essie. You can do all the

  paper work you want here in my office, but no field work. I won’t change my mind on that.’’

  ‘‘Oh.’’ She looked toward the window. ‘‘That’s not what I was going to ask, but I have wondered how it was going. You never talk about it at the supper table.’’

  ‘‘It was a dry hole.’’

  ‘‘No! You mean there was not any oil in that well at all?’’

  ‘‘Not a drop.’’

  ‘‘Oh, Papa. All that work. How disappointing. I’m so terribly sorry.’’

  He shrugged. ‘‘That’s the way it is in any prospecting venture. I finally called the boys off the rig today and am moving them to another location Davidson suggested.’’

  ‘‘Are you sure you trust his scouting instincts after this?’’

  ‘‘We’ll give him another try before I call in somebody else. Now, what proposition did you have for me?’’

  She had dressed carefully for this meeting, wearing her green-and-gray tailored suit, blazer-style. Her hat was modest, decorated only by an ostrich demi-plume for some added height.

  Straightening her backbone, she looked him directly in the eye.

  ‘‘I’d like to use my dowry to purchase the abandoned seed house, please.’’

  He sat nonplussed for a moment. ‘‘Your dowry?’’

  ‘‘Yes. I’m through waiting for a husband. It’s time to move forward.’’

  ‘‘Now, Essie—’’ ‘‘No, Papa. I’m officially setting my cap on the shelf. But if it’s all right, I’d still like to invest my dowry. Just not in a husband.’’

  ‘‘What if one comes along?’’

  ‘‘Then he’ll have himself a very nice seed house.’’

  ‘‘A seed house.’’ It wasn’t a question but a statement. A confirmation that he understood her correctly.

  ‘‘Yes.’’

  He rubbed his temples. ‘‘You want to go into the cotton business?’’

  ‘‘No. I’d like to found a bicycle club.’’

  ‘‘A bicycle club?’’ he asked, clearly
puzzled.

  ‘‘That’s right. I’d like to renovate the seed house and use it one night a week for members to ride in while a band plays. During the days, I’ll give lessons.’’

  ‘‘But you’re the only person in town who owns a bicycle.’’

  ‘‘I know. I’ll have to rent or sell bikes to any members who don’t have one of their own.’’

  ‘‘So you want to buy not only the seed house but several bicycles?’’

  ‘‘For starters.’’

  ‘‘Why? Why now?’’

  ‘‘Because I’m good at both teaching and bicycling and I can use the talents the Lord blessed me with to bless others.’’

  He leaned back in his chair.

  If you were serious about this, Lord, you will have to see it done.

  ‘‘I believe,’’ Papa said, ‘‘I had deferred these kinds of decisions to your mother.’’

  ‘‘She’s all for it.’’

  He blinked. ‘‘You’ve discussed this with your mother?’’

  ‘‘At length.’’

  He placed his arms on the desk. ‘‘What did she say?’’

  ‘‘That she’d like to sign up for lessons.’’

  ‘‘Doreen wants to ride a bike?’’ Stiffening, he scowled. ‘‘I won’t have it. She’ll break her neck.’’

  ‘‘No, she won’t. I’m an excellent teacher.’’

  ‘‘What would she wear? I will not have her riding about town in those short skirts.’’

  Essie smiled. ‘‘You let me.’’

  ‘‘That’s different. Entirely different. I can’t even fathom what Doreen was thinking.’’

  Crossing her arms, Essie cocked her head. ‘‘She was thinking it looked like fun. And she’s right. It is. I cannot believe you are being so stuffy about this.’’

  ‘‘I’m not being stuffy.’’

  She lifted an eyebrow.

  ‘‘What would she wear?’’ he repeated.

  ‘‘A costume with a series of drawstrings that will convert her skirt into bloomers while riding and can then be released to re-create the skirt.’’

  He frowned. ‘‘Where would she get that?’’

  ‘‘She’ll have to buy or make one. But that will be no problem. You see, I’m also going to sell patterns and bicycle-wear in my club.’’

  ‘‘A seed house. Bicycles. Patterns. Ready-made clothing. Anything else you want to purchase while you’re at it?’’

  ‘‘Quite a bit, actually.’’

  He shook his head. ‘‘You are talking about a great deal of money.

  Your dowry is generous, but not that generous. I cannot see myself investing such a sum. Not for a business that is doomed to failure.’’

  Picking her journal up off the floor, she set it on the edge of his desk. ‘‘Inside here I have a list of several hundred profitable bicycle clubs from all around our country. I have marked a section that lists what my club will entail, how it will work, and what it will cost to convert the seed house. I’ve gone into great detail about what I will charge for membership, bike rentals, and lessons. I have inserted an article from one of your old New York Times that cites, ‘The bicycle is of more importance to mankind than all the victories and defeats of Napoleon, with the First and Second Punic Wars thrown in.’ ’’ She slid the bound book closer to him. ‘‘I have also listed my costs and how I will pay them back to you with interest.’’

  He didn’t even look at the journal. ‘‘Are you concerned with how you will live once I am gone? You needn’t be. I have listed you as beneficiary in all my dealings, including Sullivan Oil. You will be well taken care of.’’

  ‘‘Thank you, Papa. And I am most appreciative. But in the meanwhile, I’d like to have something that is mine.’’ She leaned forward to emphasize her point. ‘‘The bicycle is the way of the future. Don’t you see? It is better than a horse because it costs almost nothing and is never tired. It will take its rider three times as far as a horse in the same number of days or weeks. The Times says that the value of horseflesh will drop to almost nothing within the next twenty years.’’

  ‘‘I’m sorry, Essie, but that is rather hard to imagine. Wheels may

  be a mode of transportation for some, but not the majority. Consider Mr. Fouty or Mrs. Vandervoort. Do you really believe they would give up their horses for a bike?’’

  ‘‘Yes, I do. Did you know in Brooklyn they have a Fat Man’s Bicycle Club, where members must weigh over 250 pounds to join?’’

  He looked at her with skepticism. ‘‘But so many doctors and churches are against it. You won’t be able to drum up enough business to support your venture.’’

  ‘‘The folks in town are simply uninformed. I can show them article after article by doctors and clergymen who are not only proponents of bicycling for both men and women, but who actually make their rounds on bikes.’’

  He harrumphed. ‘‘And will you tell me next that you’ll pull a wagon with it?’’

  ‘‘Of course not, but the papers say you can make fifty miles a day as comfortably as twenty miles on foot while carrying all the clothing you need, besides a camera and other traps. And the exercise is more invigorating than walking.’’

  He opened her journal and perused the first few pages. ‘‘What’s this about social activities? I thought the main focus was bicycling.’’

  ‘‘It is, but other clubs around the country offer banquets and bicycle debating societies and cycle races. In order to increase my yield, I thought I should do the same.’’

  He continued to read, and after a while she quietly let herself out of the room, but not before she caught the slightest sparkle in Papa’s eyes as he turned the pages of her journal.

  chapter THIRTY-ONE

  FIVE MONTHS LATER

  ESSIE TOOK PEG FOR another turn around the Corsicana Velocipede Club. After an adjustment to the frame of her bike, the blacksmith had been able to eliminate the click that had resulted from Peg’s fall. Now the wheels of her machine hummed with each rotation of the pedals.

  Light poured in from long, narrow windows lining the ceiling of the one-hundred-fifty-foot structure, spotlighting her ride. The plank flooring offered an escape from the dirt roads outside, though the smell of cottonseed still tinted the club’s air.

  Today was to be her grand opening. She had, so far, seventy-eight paying members, and private lessons would start this morning. This would give her two months to teach her members the rudiments before the Fourth of July when she would host their inaugural ‘‘group ride’’—band and all.

  Shirley Bunting and Sadie Tyner entered from the back, their giggles and excited whispers echoing throughout the vast room. Essie steered her bike toward them.

  She still marveled at Papa’s cleverness in soliciting Mr. Bunting as an investor. He and Shirley had evidently been in Dallas and had seen for themselves the bicycle craze that had begun to grip the big city, and they were eager to participate.

  With one of the town’s most prominent bankers not only blessing her venture but backing it, the rest of the community responded in kind, many of them signing up for a membership.

  Shirley lifted her arm and waved. ‘‘Hellooooooooooo.’’

  . . . helloooo . . . helloooo . . . echoed in the vast space.

  What a surprise the lovely young blonde had turned out to be. In many ways, she was as lonely as Essie had been. But her loneliness was due to an overabundance of suitors, who—attracted superficially to her beauty—offered her no real companionship.

  Her closest chum, Sadie Tyner, was as sharp as they came but had been suppressed by a mother who had convinced the poor girl she was unattractive and too smart and would, therefore, never land a husband if she didn’t do something about it.

  Essie had hired the girls as a personal favor to Mr. Bunting. And what a gift from God they were. Both were quick, enthusiastic learners and had blossomed under her tutelage. For she had not only taught them the thrill and exhilaration of mastering a bicycle but also th
e sense of freedom and accomplishment a woman could achieve through it.

  Of course, convincing Shirley to wear simple, lightweight clothing had so far been the most challenging task. She’d wanted to wear a fancy bicycle suit and hat, but Essie forbade it. The men and women in town were not yet comfortable with such fashions and she did not want to alienate them.

  She drew up next to the girls. ‘‘Are you ready for a long day of work?’’

  ‘‘We can’t wait,’’ Shirley said. Sadie nodded her agreement.

  She hoped that would still be the case at the end of the day. Once word had gotten out that the charming Miss Bunting would be assisting in lessons, the youth of Corsicana—male and female alike—had signed up in droves.

  Gliding to a stop, Essie jumped from Peg.

  ‘‘I’m wearing my bicycle corset,’’ Sadie whispered, smoothing down the front of her shirtwaist, ‘‘just like you told me to. Can you tell?’’

  ‘‘Not a’tall. What about you, Shirley?’’ Essie asked.

  ‘‘I feel downright scandalous. I cannot imagine how you are going to convince our mothers to do the same.’’

  ‘‘We won’t have to. They won’t be able to breathe if they don’t.’’

  The door at the front of the building opened, and an elderly woman with a cane entered.

  ‘‘Hello, Mrs. Lockhart,’’ Essie said. ‘‘You are right on time. Welcome to the Corsicana Velocipede Club.’’

  ‘‘A bunch of foolishness,’’ she answered. ‘‘I’m going to break every bone in my body.’’

  ‘‘Nonsense.’’ Essie hugged the woman, the smell of lilacs teasing her nose. ‘‘Tumbling off your bicycle is inexcusable. All you need do is decide you won’t fall and you won’t.’’

  ‘‘I had better not.’’

  ‘‘Shall we begin right away?’’ she asked, taking the woman’s shawl.

  ‘‘If we must.’’

  ‘‘Very well. First, let’s watch Miss Bunting demonstrate.’’

  Shirley mounted a Ladies Yukon with grace and ease, pedaling it away from them and toward the back wall of the building.

  ‘‘By July Fourth you will know how to sit, pedal, balance, steer, turn, and dismount,’’ Essie said. ‘‘Do you see that black thing attached to the front of the machine that looks a bit like bat wings?’’