It Happened at the Fair: A Novel

by Deeanne Gist

“Because I’ve been asking why we can’t teach both sign language and lip-reading. She is not pleased.”

  “Well, tonight we’re going to forget all about that. So get your things in order, Miss Wentworth, and let’s go.”

  GREAT WHITE HORSE INN

  “It was an exact reproduction of the famous English inn described in Dickens’s Pickwick Papers, right down to the statue of a horse over its entrance.”

  CHAPTER

  51

  Eager as Della was to ride the gondola, Cullen first surprised her by taking her to one of the fair’s restaurants. He chose the Great White Horse Inn, directly across from Blooker’s. It was an exact reproduction of the famous English inn described in Dickens’s Pickwick Papers, right down to the statue of a horse over its entrance.

  Removing her gloves, she felt as if she’d stepped back in time to the fifteenth century. Brick walls, wooden rafters, and oriental carpets in turbulent fields of green, pink, and maroon had her imagining the passengers who’d been entertained within the original inn’s rustic walls while waiting for a coach to London. Even the picture frames were made of braided straw and tied with ribbon.

  “This is much more cheerful than the way Dickens described it,” she said, raising her voice over the noise.

  Cullen nodded, but from the angling of his head with his left ear close, she could tell he had difficulty understanding her.

  She scanned the boisterous crowd for a vacant table. “Will you be able to hear in here?”

  “I might have to make an intent study of your lips, but I’ll somehow manage,” he said, winking.

  Flushing, she followed a young barmaid in a black gown, a white kirtle, and an old-timey caplet to a table by a crackling fireplace.

  THE GREAT WHITE HORSE INN

  The noise ended up being more than Cullen could conquer. They tried sign language, but she hadn’t taught him enough without a lot of spelling. She’d have to do something about that.

  Still, she enjoyed the atmosphere even without conversation. Their supper of potage, quail, and short-crust pie was served in old stewpans and wooden trenchers. Because forks had been rare during that era, they were given only spoons and one knife, which they shared.

  Cullen broke off a bite of quail, jabbed it with the knife, then held it out. She reached for it, but he pulled back and shook his head. “Open up.”

  Glancing about, she opened her mouth. He placed the bite inside, then drew the knife from her closed lips, watching her chew.

  He took a bite of his own, still eyeing her lips.

  She shifted in her chair.

  He continued, breaking the bread and offering it to her, his hand gliding over hers, feeding her occasional bites of figs and cheese, his fingers brushing her lips.

  By the time supper was over, her face stayed red, her body hot, her breath uneven. When they stepped back outside, it was all she could do not to drag him to the corner stairwell in the Manufactures Building.

  Neither spoke. His hand rode low along the small of her back, his fingers stroking. With each caress, her abdomen clinched tighter and tighter.

  Finally, they reached a set of wide steps leading down to a collection of gondolas with dragons rampant on their prows. Blue, yellow, green, and purple bows bobbed against the Basin’s landing. While Cullen secured tickets, she drank in the red and orange streaks of twilight and tried to steady her nerves. It was no use. The moment he took her elbow and helped her onto one of the blue, crescent-shaped boats, her insides became all jumbled again.

  GONDALA STATION

  The vessel swayed. She gripped his arm.

  “Easy there.” His voice ran across her skin, followed by a rush of goose bumps.

  He settled her into a velvet-covered bench, its seat and back cushioned with plush golden pillows trimmed in purple. With a quick stroke, he swept her skirts to the side, his hand swishing down her thigh so swiftly, he’d already sat before she had a chance to react. His long, muscular legs fell open, the left one pressing against her.

  A golden-skinned gondolier wearing an embroidered purple jacket took his position on the dancing bow, his long oar secured across a twisted lock. His partner, in crimson and white, balanced on tiptoe in the narrow stern, leaning forward.

  GONDALIER

  They backed up with practiced ease, then pushed on their oars. The boat shot forward like a released arrow, continuing on in one smooth glide. No command passed between them, yet they acted in harmony with each other, cutting around the base of the huge golden statue of the Republic, then moving down the center of the Basin and swinging under a bridge to the expansive walkway between the Manufactures and Electricity Buildings.

  The rhythmic sound of their oars merged with the ripple of waves against the craft. A subdued murmur from people passing on the banks added to the refrain. Untamed plants along the edges of the channel juxtaposed with the sweep of architectural wonders reaching heavenward on either side.

  She glanced at Cullen to see his reaction to the nooks of the park that could not be seen from land.

  But his eyes were not on the vista. They were on her.

  The soft breeze caused by the boat loosened tendrils of her hair, spinning them across her face. A wisp stuck to the corner of her mouth. Before she could release it, he hooked it with his finger, pulling it free.

  I want to kiss you, he mouthed.

  Her stomach bounced. With an iron will, she pulled her gaze away. The gondoliers crossed the calm water and traveled beneath a bridge. As they emerged on the opposite side, the Wooded Island came into view. She drew in her breath. From this perspective, it rose like a crown jewel set amid the silvery lagoon.

  Lily leaves floated about its edges, framing an embankment trimmed with every specimen of flower imaginable on reeds, climbers, ornamentals, and trees. It was as if the brilliance of the blooms reflected a hundred prisms hung in the clouds.

  Along the magnificent promenade, people stopped to point at their gondola. Did they not see the soft zephyrs, the fragile sweet peas, and the immense hydrangea bushes with delicate blossoms blessing every branch? All of which were diminishing in the rapid loss of sunlight?

  A crowd continued to collect, all congregating along the path and looking out at them—some staring, some smiling.

  Shaking her head, she turned to share her exasperation with Cullen, but he was no longer at her side. He was on the bottom of the boat, one knee bent.

  Her eyes widened. “What . . . ?”

  He opened a black velvet box. Nestled inside was a ring with five luminous gray diamonds encircling a sixth and making a flower-like shape. “Would you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”

  She covered her mouth, her gaze zigzagging between him and the ring. A combination of disbelief and euphoria exploded inside her. Having no power to speak, she simply nodded.

  He smiled. “May I see your hand?”

  Lowering her hands, she pulled off her left glove.

  He slid the ring onto her finger. The group of spectators clapped.

  “It’s beautiful,” she whispered.

  “It was my grandmother’s.”

  Her breath caught. “Oh, Cullen.”

  Grasping the back of the bench, he bracketed her with his arms, then leaned in and kissed her. Their audience cheered and whistled. She felt him smile against her lips.

  “Can we elope?” he asked, pulling back just enough to whisper the question.

  She pushed into the pillow to better see him. “Are you being serious?”

  “I am.”

  The thought of waiting for the fair to end only to then have the delay of planning a wedding held no more appeal to her than it obviously did to him. “All right. When did you have in mind?”

  “How about tomorrow?”

  A nervous laugh wiggled its way up from the back of her throat. “Well, maybe not tomorrow.”

  “Then when?”

  “Soon.” She tugged at his sleeve. “Come back up here.”

  This
time she swept her own skirt aside.

  Settling next to her, he laid his arm along the bench behind her, his brown eyes ardent and impassioned. “I love you.”

  Her heart filled. “I love you too.”

  He toyed with a tendril of hair at the back of her neck, twining it round and round his finger. Every part of her wanted to launch herself into his arms.

  His eyes darkened as if he’d read her thoughts.

  They drifted beneath another bridge. Within its dark shadows, the gondoliers flattened their oars, bringing the boat to a stop. Waves gently rocked them from side to side.

  Cullen gathered her into his arms. She had no time for protest, for his kiss commanded all her attention. It was the kiss not of a courting man but of a lover.

  Every nerve, every impulse, every fiber in her being magnified a hundred times. She pressed herself against him. He tried to draw her closer, but the bench was awkward. The pillows slipped and the boat swayed.

  He broke their kiss, his chest heaving. “Marry me tomorrow.”

  Yes, her insides screamed, but her mind held on to some semblance of sanity. “Not tomorrow.”

  “The day after?” He nipped her ear, nuzzled her neck.

  She gently pushed against his chest. “The gondoliers,” she whispered.

  He stilled, then slowly straightened. When they’d righted themselves, the boatmen guided the gondola toward the wings of the Art Gallery. The channel curved and wandered, now narrow, now wide. Now straight, now crooked.

  Darkness crept upon them, welcoming the man in the moon, who smiled at them. Cullen returned his arm to the back of the bench, his fingers making circles along her arm. They passed the Wooded Island again, strings of green Japanese lanterns bobbing in the breeze, a medley of sweet odors wafting across the waters. As they reentered the Grand Basin, the vessel glided to its center, then floated about as they gloried in the illumination show. The resplendent glow of lights made her feel as if they’d drifted into an enchanted land.

  Snuggling into the crook of Cullen’s arm, she laid her head against his shoulder and turned her betrothal ring about her finger. She couldn’t wait to look at it more closely. She wondered which grandmother it had belonged to—his father’s mother or his mother’s mother. His mother’s wedding ring had most likely been lost in the fire.

  She fisted her hand, pledging to take great care of this one. She still couldn’t believe he’d proposed. But he’d obviously planned to do so for some time, because he’d had to send for the ring.

  She worried her lip. What had his father’s reaction been? Especially since it wasn’t Wanda Cullen planned to marry. Had his father been close to Wanda?

  The colored spotlights captured her attention as they began to highlight different parts of the Court of Honor. The brilliance of the electric lights along with the featured statues and fountains captivated, enthralled, and mesmerized. Perhaps it was enchanted, this White City.

  Even still, she looked forward to the show’s finale. For then Cullen would walk her home. She felt sure he’d find a spot to try to convince her once more to set as early a wedding date as possible.

  She had no intention of marrying him tomorrow. All the same, she looked forward to the convincing.

  WOODED ISLAND

  “In the morning the Wooded Island was blessed by heaven and held no rivals. Not even a rainbow could compete.”

  CHAPTER

  52

  DO NOT MARRY UNTIL I HAVE MET HIM. STOP. I MEAN IT. STOP. ON MY WAY NOW. STOP.

  Della smiled as she thought again of her father’s curt response to her news. He and Mama had taken the next train to Chicago and arrived within a day.

  Cullen had tried to explain that eloping meant saying the vows and then telling her parents. But Della had refused. It would hurt their feelings, and she had no intention of starting married life off on the wrong foot.

  Still, Papa hadn’t been easy to pacify. He had harangued and blustered and then beseeched Mama for help. But Mama was so thrilled Della had a groom, she didn’t care who he was or how quickly they married.

  Now that the moment had come, though, Della experienced her first rush of nervousness. They received special permission to allow her parents into the park while the sun had just begun its journey into the sky, for in the morning, the Wooded Island was blessed by heaven and held no rivals. Not even a rainbow could compete.

  They crossed the bridge where the sculpture of the half-naked Indian reminded her of her first visit to the island with Cullen. This time, he’d be waiting for her inside the rose garden with the intent of making her his wife.

  Despite Papa’s stern countenance, he agreed to purchase an exquisite new dress for her. The gown of rose silk faille and hounds-tooth had a matching hat, complete with netting that covered her eyes like a bridal veil. Never had she owned something so nice.

  As they crossed to the inner part of the island, a green flowery fence beckoned. As she stepped through its gates, the sweet aroma of thousands of blooms enveloped her. In front of a wall of roses, Cullen stood in his gray suit with his hands in his pockets, talking with Chief Murphy. An entire battalion of firemen in full regalia visited with Hilda and Maxine.

  Sensing her presence, Cullen turned and slowly pulled his hands free, then straightened his white collar and silver necktie. The men formed a group on one side of him, her friends on the other.

  She took both her mother’s and father’s arms and walked toward them. Never had a church been more beautifully appointed. The cool, scented garden was their nave, the blue cloudless sky their high roof. Even the gentle breeze stirred vines and flowers, making them a soft-voiced choir.

  Cullen nipped a pink rose from a bush behind him, then snapped its thorns from the stem.

  When they reached him, he extended it to her. “You look lovely.” His voice held awe and reverence.

  Warmth surged through her. Releasing her mother’s arm, she accepted the rose, then touched it to her nose. “Thank you.”

  Murphy cleared his throat and opened his Bible. “Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?”

  Her father searched her gaze, a silent message that it wasn’t too late to change her mind.

  Smiling, she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

  With a heavy sigh, he offered her hand to the chief, then stepped back.

  With his right hand, Cullen took hers from Murphy.

  “Repeat after me,” Murphy said. “I, Cullen Berneen McNamara, take thee, Adelaide Rosalind Wentworth . . .”

  Cullen gave his troth, his voice strong and full of conviction. She then took his right hand and repeated her vows, emotion rising and causing her words to wobble.

  Cullen gave her a reassuring squeeze, then once again slid the same ring she’d worn since their engagement onto her left finger and pledged to her all his worldly goods.

  Murphy said the Lord’s Prayer, joined their hands, and clasped them with his. “Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.” He offered a blessing and pronounced them man and wife.

  Though the firemen whistled and whooped, the wedding kiss was chaste and simple. But Cullen’s ardent look made promise of a more rousing one in private.

  CHAPTER

  53

  Cullen thought night would never come. Della’s parents had stuck by their side the entire day as the four of them toured the fair. Della was clearly close to them and enjoyed their company. Mr. Wentworth, however, had enjoyed thwarting Cullen. The man knew good and well Cullen had wanted a moment alone with his bride, but made sure no opportunity arose.

  Now, however, the illumination show was over and the park was closing. Mr. and Mrs. Wentworth had no choice but to leave. In the Court of Honor, they hugged Della good-bye and Mr. Wentworth shook Cullen’s hand—squeezing so hard Cullen struggled to keep his fingers from overlapping.

  Still, a surge of satisfaction swept through him, for Della was his and carried his last name to prove it.

  The exitin
g crowd swallowed up her parents.

  He captured Della’s hand and brought it to his lips. “Did you have fun?”

  A lamppost picked up the sparkles in her eyes. “I did. I hadn’t realized how much I missed them until now.”

  “Are you sorry they’re leaving tomorrow?”

  She tilted her head. “Yes and no. Yes, because there was so much more I wanted to show them. And no, because . . .” She bit her lip. “. . . Because I sort of wished we’d been alone.”

  He tucked her hand into his elbow. “Well, we’re alone now, Mrs. McNamara.”

  He started toward the South Canal.

  Her brows lifted. “Are you taking me to a hidden staircase?”

  Chuckling, he shook his head. “We are man and wife. No need to search out eaves and alcoves anymore.”

  “Then why are we heading in the wrong direction?”

  “You didn’t think we’d spend our wedding night in Harvell House, did you?”

  A bit of panic crossed her face. “Well, yes. That’s where all my things are.”

  “Your mother packed a bag for you and had it delivered to our destination.”

  Her shoulders relaxed. “And what is our destination?”

  Bed. “Oh, over that way.” He whirled his hand in a southeasterly direction.

  “We’re staying on the fairgrounds?”

  “We are.”

  She glanced toward the Agricultural Building. “Where? ‘Over that way’ could mean yards or it could mean miles.”

  “Farther than yards, shorter than miles.”

  She cocked a brow but said nothing. Her smile began to stretch when he brought her to the threshold of Blooker’s Dutch Cocoa Company.

  “We’re having some hot chocolate?” she asked.

  “We are.” Pushing open the large wooden door, a rich chocolate aroma enveloped them. Della removed her gloves.

  A rosy-cheeked Dutch maiden wearing wooden shoes and a gaudy dress greeted them.