The Carousel Painter

by Judith Miller

  “Yes.” Augusta’s eyes dimmed. “Are you sorry you came here?”

  “No, of course not. Your father is giving me a wonderful opportunity. I believe I’ll take great satisfaction in painting the carousel animals. And if I’m given an occasional opportunity to paint a portrait, that will be a good thing, too.”

  Thomas arrived outside the bedroom door and waited until Augusta motioned him inside. “You can put the trunk beside the dresser, Thomas.” She thanked him and then waited until he was out of earshot. “It’s my hope that word of your talent will spread and you won’t be in the factory for long. I don’t want to sound like my mother, but I shiver at the thought of you working among all of those unrefined men.”

  Scooping up an armful of nightgowns, I dropped them into the trunk. “You forget that I am not the daughter of wealthy parents. For years, my father was a simple farmer who painted when time permitted. Once we were in Paris, he no longer farmed, but he wasn’t a man of wealth or education.”

  “But his reputation among well-known artists gave him a position of honor.”

  I snorted. A most unladylike reaction, yet the notion that my father held a position of honor required a snort. Yes, my father’s talent was admired by his peers and members of the art community, but he hadn’t achieved a position of honor. He wouldn’t have been teaching unexceptional art students if he’d been esteemed by Parisian society. Yet I would never say such a thing to Augusta. Besides, I would have had to interrupt her prolonged criticism of my unladylike snort.

  Instead, I retrieved a dress the shade of ripe cranberries from the heaping pile on the bed. “Will this be acceptable for church services tomorrow morning?” I held it close to my body, enjoying the feel of the cool, slick silk against my outstretched hand.

  “Yes, of course. Let me look in the closet. I have a hat with ribbons that are a perfect match.” Before I could object, she ducked into the depths of the closet. I couldn’t understand her muffled remarks, but moments later she backed out of the small space. With a triumphant glint in her eyes, she held the hat aloft. “I told you. It’s perfect.” She thrust a sand-colored hat adorned with cranberry taffeta in my direction. “Here. Try it on.”

  I didn’t object, for it was evident I would meet with little success. I snugged the hat onto my head and jabbed a pin through the woven, pale yellow straw. When I turned to receive Augusta’s appraisal, she waved me to the hallway.

  “Hurry, there’s someone downstairs.”

  “But . . .” I pointed to the hat.

  “Come on!” she urged.

  At any moment I expected her to bounce up and down and yank me along by the arm. “What’s the hurry? Won’t Frances answer the door?”

  I was only a few steps behind her when we arrived at the top of the staircase. At that very spot, without the least bit of warning, Augusta came to an abrupt halt. Unable to slow my momentum, I plowed into her backside and sent her plummeting like a sack of potatoes. The spectacle was not pretty. Arms akimbo, she slid and toppled. Thud. Thud. Thud. With each strike, her petticoats, pantaloons, or stockings came into full view.

  She landed with her body turned toward the spindled banister, her face hidden from view. Terror clutched my throat. My breathing turned shallow and I forced myself to inhale. What if she’d broken an arm? What if I’d knocked her unconscious? What if she’s dead? I clattered down the steps and dropped beside Augusta. I slapped my palm across my mouth to hold back the sound of a dreaded giggle.

  When I was certain any threat of laughter was under control, I leaned close and whispered her name. Ever so slowly she turned to face me. A hint of purplish blue tinged her prominent cheekbones, but she was alive. Relief flooded over me like a cleansing rain, and I exhaled a deep breath. “Is anything broken?”

  “I don’t think so.” She struggled to free one arm from between the spindles and righted herself. Before we could further assess her injuries, we both turned toward the sound of a man’s laughter and light applause.

  “A fine entrance, Augusta. I do hope this was a practice session for your performance at the Midland Theater.”

  I had no idea who this man was, but I wanted to throttle him!

  CHAPTER

  6

  I couldn’t believe my ears. I thought I’d heard Augusta say the name Tyson.

  “Tyson Farnsworth?” I turned away from the tall, broad-shouldered young man standing in the foyer and hissed my question at Augusta. She nodded up and down, but immediately touched her fingers to her head. “Your head hurts?”

  “No, but you should remove your hat.”

  “My hat?” If the only thing concerning Augusta was the fact that I was still wearing a hat, the fall had surely affected her brain. I held three fingers up and displayed them in front of her face. “How many fingers do you see?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Five,” Augusta said while she pushed my hand away.

  Panic. That was the only word to describe the cold fingers that had clamped tight around my heart. I wished Tyson would step forward and take control, but when I managed a sideways glance in his direction, I knew I was on my own. He had propped himself against the wall with his arms folded across his chest. He was the boorish, ungentlemanly fellow Augusta had described to me in Paris—and more. But right now I didn’t have time to deal with Tyson’s lack of sensitivity.

  “Look again!” I held up three fingers and waved my hand back and forth.

  Augusta giggled. I could feel my panic mushroom. I was the one who laughed at inappropriate times, not Augusta. Pushing my hand closer, I looked directly into her eyes. “Tell me how many fingers!”

  “Three fingers. Three this time and three the last time.” She tipped her head to one side and grinned. “Had you worried, didn’t I?” She clutched her arm around her waist and burst into a gale of laughter.

  “That wasn’t funny, Augusta!”

  My emotions reeled. I didn’t know whether to cry from embarrassment or join in her laughter, stalk outside or remain in her house, let relief wash over me or chastise her with harsh words. Before I could make my final decision, Augusta grasped the banister railing and attempted to stand. She groaned.

  “I’m not falling for that trick again.” I looked at her and smirked.

  Tyson pushed off from the wall and propelled himself toward the stairs. In three long, easy strides, he transformed into a knight in shining armor, rushing to Augusta’s rescue. He bent forward, assisted her to her feet, and held her around the waist as she descended the final three steps. “Here, Augusta, let me help you into the parlor.”

  With her back hunched like a withered old woman, Augusta leaned heavily on Tyson’s arm and hobbled past me. She reminded me of the little old ladies who shuffled through the park while clinging to their grandsons’ arms.

  Tyson glanced over his shoulder and shot me a look. He’d decided I was no more than an inconsiderate slug. I could read it in those icy blue eyes. How dare he? Not once had he stepped forward to help when Augusta lay sprawled on the stairs. What was he doing here, anyway? Wasn’t he supposed to be at school with Augusta’s brother? I clenched my jaw to hold back the angry words burning in my throat.

  I marched into the parlor and faced Augusta. She was sitting on the sofa, calmly arranging the pleats in her raspberry and charcoal gray dress. While I stood waiting to unleash my frustration, she held me at bay and formally introduced Tyson Farnsworth. She didn’t realize there was no need for formal introductions. The chameleon had already shown me his full array of colors.

  The moment the formalities had been concluded, I did my best to interrupt Augusta. To my consternation, all attempts were squelched while she regaled Tyson with far too many details of our friendship. To the untrained observer, we would’ve appeared to be a convivial group enjoying an evening visit. And with the exception of Augusta’s bruised eye and messy hair, she appeared the perfect hostess. But this was all a game, and I wasn’t in the mood for such childishness.

  When she wou
nd down long enough for me to get a word in, I didn’t hesitate. “I can see the bruise beneath your eye, but I want to know if you’ve suffered any other injuries, or if this was all a ploy to frighten me.”

  She pointed to the empty cushion on the settee. “Sit down here,” she said before turning toward Tyson. “Would you be so kind as to go to the kitchen and ask Frances to fetch me a wet compress for my eye?”

  “Yes, of course. Anything else? A cup of water or perhaps some tea?” The questions slipped from his tongue like warm molasses.

  I thought Augusta would swoon at his sticky-sweet offer. She gazed at Tyson like an adoring schoolgirl. Granted, he did possess the piercing blue eyes she’d so often mentioned, but I also detected an icy aloofness that caused a cold chill to spiral down my spine. I wanted to nudge her from her state of silliness, but I remained silent until Tyson strode off toward the kitchen.

  “What are you doing?” I hissed. “I can already see that he’s counting you as his latest conquest.” I wrinkled my nose in disgust. “If he’d ever harbored any doubt of your affection, your fawning behavior has erased all doubt.”

  With a wave of her hand, Augusta silenced me. “We don’t have long until he returns. My body aches. Come morning, I imagine my back and legs will match the color beneath my eye. But I can use this to advantage. The Lilac Ball is the weekend after our housewarming. I want an invitation from Tyson.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. Augusta was finagling for a dance partner while I worried she’d been maimed for life. I locked my fingers together and squeezed hard, or I might have considered wrapping them around Augusta’s neck.

  “You’re going to make a fool of yourself. And what is he doing here, anyway?”

  “I’m not certain. I think it must be providence.”

  She gave me one of those moony-eyed looks I’d seen earlier. If she weren’t injured, I’d be tempted to shake some sense into her. “I don’t like him. He has shifty eyes and a cold heart. And you’ve obviously forgotten we discussed him in Paris. You said he was rude and inconsiderate. I believe those are the words you used to describe him.”

  Augusta pulled back as though I’d landed a direct blow. “People change, you know. Besides, you don’t even know him.”

  “I know his kind.”

  Augusta tipped her head and sniffed. The picture she presented reminded me of her mother, and I cringed.

  “You don’t know any more about men than I do. I detect a genuine change in Tyson. He’s kindhearted and appealing.”

  At the sound of footfalls in the hallway, I leaned closer. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Tyson strode into the room carrying a bulging linen cloth in one hand and a towel draped across his arm. He looked like a waiter preparing to serve dinner. “I had Thomas chip some small pieces of ice from the block in your icebox,” he proudly announced. “I’ve had my share of black eyes, and ice works better than cold water. Keeps the swelling down.”

  I immediately surmised that any black eyes suffered by Tyson Farnsworth were due to his wretched behavior. I made a mental note to add that to the increasing list of reasons why I considered him a bad choice for Augusta. Who would want to pursue a man who boasts of black eyes and fisticuffs?

  Yet even that comment didn’t faze Augusta. When he applied the ice-filled cloth to her cheek, she placed her fingers over his hand and gave him a lopsided smile. My stomach clenched as I took in the scene. Something needed to be done to stop this nonsense.

  “I’m sure your arm is tired, Tyson. I’ll be glad to relieve you.” I reached to grasp the cloth, but Augusta clasped my wrist with her free hand.

  “I’m fine.” Tyson glanced over Augusta’s head and winked at me.

  My cheeks felt as though they’d been scorched by a hot poker. The gall of this man was beyond belief. He was a dishonorable scoundrel. I glared in return and decided it was time to attack.

  “What brings you to Collinsford, Tyson? I thought you and Ronald were still attending college classes.”

  Now it was his turn to glare at me. I offered what I hoped was a sweet yet somewhat smug smile in return while Augusta sat between us, oblivious to the silent exchanges swirling around her.

  “My classes ended a full week earlier. I was going to go home, but my parents are presently traveling. Ronald convinced me I should come to Collinsford and he’ll join up with me as soon as he can.” Tyson bent closer to Augusta. “He did write and tell your parents I was coming, didn’t he?”

  Augusta’s fingers tightened around Tyson’s hand, and several drops of water dribbled from the tea towel. “No need for concern. My parents will be delighted you’ve arrived early. Mother was extremely pleased you’d be here for the housewarming.”

  “Does your early arrival mean you’ll depart soon after the housewarming?” I asked.

  Augusta pinched my arm with agonizing intensity. If I hadn’t clamped my bottom lip between my teeth, I would have squealed in pain. The most I could do was force her fingers from my arm and attempt to maintain a snippet of restraint and demure composure.

  He lifted his shoulders into a straight line. “I haven’t decided when I’m going to leave. What about you, Miss Brouwer? Any plans for the future?”

  “None that I care to discuss at present.” I pointed to the dripping cloth. “Looks like the ice needs to be replaced.”

  My comment wasn’t well received, but I didn’t care. I had successfully avoided Tyson’s interrogation.

  Last evening, before Mr. and Mrs. Galloway returned home from their visit with the neighbors, I had retreated to my bedroom. In retrospect, it was a cowardly act. Yet I knew I couldn’t bear Mrs. Galloway’s scrutiny. While Augusta hadn’t held me responsible for her bruises, I wasn’t certain Mrs. Galloway would be so generous—especially if the bruising hadn’t disappeared in time for the housewarming.

  When I arrived at the breakfast table, Mrs. Galloway offered a terse greeting. I cringed when Augusta entered the room. The bruise had darkened and some of the swelling still remained. She looked like she’d been on the losing side of a tavern brawl.

  Mrs. Galloway reached across to examine her eye. “You need to dust additional powder on your cheek. And take care to choose a hat with a full brim that will drop across your forehead.”

  I lowered my eyes and pretended to examine the pattern of the tablecloth. By tomorrow I’d be moved out. I knew the timing would please Augusta’s mother even more than me. I uttered a silent thank-you when Mr. Galloway entered the dining room.

  “I knocked on Tyson’s door. Seems he’s not feeling well and asked to be excused from church services.”

  A likely story. I didn’t believe for a minute that Tyson was sick. However, both Augusta and her mother were overwrought with concern. I expected one or both of them to rush upstairs, sit by his bedside, and offer to hold his hand. Ridiculous. He had been perfectly fine last night. The chameleon wanted to sleep late and avoid the Sunday sermon. I would have preferred avoiding church, too, but not for the same reason.

  I swallowed a forkful of scrambled eggs and envisioned my introduction to the Galloways’ acquaintances: Hello, this is Augusta’s friend Carrington Brouwer, who recently returned from France. Carrington is the one responsible for those nasty bruises on Augusta’s face. She pushed our dear Augusta down a flight of stairs last night. My appetite disappeared.

  I continued to chase pieces of egg around my plate until Mrs. Galloway announced we must finish up and be on our way. After I helped Augusta pat another layer of powder on her swollen cheek and choose a hat that I hoped would mask the bruise, we descended the stairs—with me in the lead. Whenever approaching a flight of stairs in the future, I resolved never again to follow behind Augusta. My father would have considered the decision silly and useless—akin to closing the barn door after the horses had escaped. That saying had been one of Papa’s favorites. I felt weepy at the remembrance. Holding a fisted hand to my lips, I coughed to hold back the unbidden tears.

&n
bsp; Because we arrived at the church somewhat late, our entrance required only one or two introductions before we arrived at the Galloways’ pew. I could only hope we would escape as easily. From all appearances the added face powder and hat were working well. Augusta wasn’t receiving any gaping stares, but I doubted whether anyone could gain a good view of her. She’d been squished between her mother and me.

  After the Scripture reading the preacher announced his sermon topic: forgiveness. I prayed Mrs. Galloway would hearken to the preacher’s words and the remainder of my time with the family would be somewhat bearable, but Tyson’s presence would surely add to the awkwardness of the afternoon.

  While the preacher opened his Bible and looked out over the congregation, I settled against the back of the pew and prepared for the sermon. It was sometime during the beginning of the preacher’s message and the final amen that I convinced myself Tyson was primarily responsible for Augusta’s fall. If he hadn’t unexpectedly arrived at the front door, she wouldn’t have plummeted down the stairs. In all likelihood, church wasn’t the proper place to be mitigating my guilt, but it eased my conscience to assign at least a portion of the fault to him.

  After church I used the ploy to advantage. When Mrs. Galloway pointed to me as the culprit responsible for Augusta’s bruised face, I didn’t hesitate to add Tyson’s unexpected arrival into the explanation. After that, an accidental fall was the only explanation given. Mrs. Galloway didn’t appear willing to assess any responsibility to Tyson.

  Augusta pulled me aside while her parents visited outside the church. “Don’t be offended by Mother’s comments. She’s embarrassed by my appearance and fears someone might believe Father inflicted my bruises.”

  My stomach plummeted at such a thought. “I never considered such an idea. How could anyone think your father would—”

  “There’s cruelty in more homes than you might believe. Even among the folks who show up at church every Sunday. Of course that’s not true of my father, but Mother always believes people will think the worst.” She grasped my arm, and we walked toward the carriage. “She thought I should remain at home this morning, but Father wouldn’t hear of it.”