by Jo Goodman
Morgan escorted Jane back to the Pennyroyal with the intention of collecting her belongings. This did not come to pass as quickly as she thought he might have liked, as they were trailed to the hotel by Pastor Robbins, the two witnesses, and all five of the bystanders. There were congratulations and best wishes all around, and the celebratory air evolved into a reception with food and drink and laughter. Customers from the saloon came to the dining room to observe the fuss and stayed to enjoy it. Diners crossed to the saloon to take more drink. After an hour, Jane believed she had been introduced to all of Bitter Springs, certainly to everyone who was able to squeeze into the Pennyroyal.
For herself, Jane did not mind, but she thought Morgan suffered the attention. On the few occasions when they were separated by well-wishers, she noticed him sidling toward the edge of the room only to be drawn back by someone calling him over to their circle.
A young woman whose name she could not recall was pressed to play the piano. Terry McCormick, the town’s mayor, held up a fiddle and joined her. The music moved people to push aside the saloon tables and make room to jump and stomp and carry on. The raucous energy on display was wholly unknown to Jane. The walls of the Pennyroyal shook. The floor trembled under her feet. The mirror behind the long mahogany bar reflected golden, rippling light as the lamps and lanterns wobbled in place.
Jane stood with Morgan on the perimeter of the dancing, fascinated by the frenzy but not inclined to join in. She did not know when she slipped her arm in his, and once she was aware of it, she did not try to disengage. For the longest time, neither did he, but when Buster Johnson swung Cil Ross too close to where Jane was standing, it was Morgan who pulled her out of harm’s way and kept her there, one hand at the small of her back.
Jane did not expect that Morgan would invite her to dance, but there were those present who had expectations contrary to her own and were not shy about voicing them. She hoped that Morgan would hold firm, as much for her sake as his, but when the crowd began to clap and chant, only a pillar of stone would not be moved. She held her breath when Morgan turned to her.
“Shall we?” he asked.
She looked at the perfect arch of one of his eyebrows and wondered if it hinted at wry humor or resignation. “I don’t know the steps,” she said.
“No one does.”
Thinking she could save him from himself, she tried again. “You told me you don’t dance.”
Morgan angled his head toward Buster Johnson gamely trying to corral Cil Ross in his arms after another spin that went wild and wide. “That’s not dancing,” he said. “I can do that.”
Jane’s eyes widened. “I don’t think I want you to.” If he heard her, he didn’t acknowledge it. She was lifted off the ground as easily as he had lifted her from the train. His hands at her waist were at once familiar and foreign. She did not try to resist.
Morgan set her down in the midst of the dancers, faced her, and took one of her hands in each of his. “Ready?”
She was not. It didn’t matter. The clapping quickened and then he was leading her sideways, always with the shoulder first, dipping into the rhythm. Three steps right, three steps left. Backward. Forward. Around and around. He made her dizzy. He made her light. She caught sight of herself in the mirror once, head thrown back, beads of perspiration glistening on her brow, pink blossoms on her cheeks, and only knew her reflection because she recognized the man she was with. He seemed unchanged to her, his features set with a Spartan’s grit even while he guided and spun her across the floor. The music moved his feet, but it did not move him. His narrow smile never touched his eyes, and when he watched her—and it struck her that he had never stopped watching her—she could not see her way through to his thoughts. His impenetrable green gaze made her shiver suddenly. In spite of the heat, she felt a frisson of excitement, and yes, of fear.
• • •
As the improvised reception went on until well after dark, Mrs. Sterling invited Morgan and Jane to spend another evening in Bitter Springs, this time as special guests of the Pennyroyal at no charge. Morgan politely declined the offer. Mrs. Sterling gave him a pointed look for making this decision without consulting his bride. For his part, Morgan pretended to be oblivious, which provoked Ida Mae’s heaviest sigh.
They left as soon as Walt loaded Jane’s trunk and bags on the bed of the buckboard. People spilled out of the Pennyroyal to send them off. Morgan singled out Cobb Bridger at the forefront of the crowd and tipped his hat to the marshal and Mrs. Bridger before taking up the reins.
The night was clear. The Milky Way laid out a trail of stars across the black sky. There was no visible moon to diminish the majesty of the heavens. Morgan saw Jane glance behind her and imagined she was seeking a last glimpse of town before the lights disappeared. He felt no such urge. It was not long after that he heard the last of the music and laughter.
“Did you want to stay?” he asked.
“No.”
“Good.”
Jane sifted through the fringed ends of her scarf, straightening and smoothing them over her knee. “I would have liked to have been asked.”
“So Mrs. Sterling was right.”
“Yes. I did not think you noticed her disapproval.”
“I’ve never learned to dodge her darts. Ignoring their sting is how I get by.” Morgan looked sideways at Jane. “I’m used to making decisions on my own. Taking your opinion into account will require some getting used to.”
“So you do intend to take it into account.”
“When it suits,” he said.
“Of course.”
Morgan thought he might have seen Jane’s lips twitch, but it could have just as easily been a grimace. “You were satisfied with the ceremony?”
“Yes. You?”
“Seemed a little crowded.” He could not mistake her soft laughter for anything but what it was. “I suppose back in New York there would have been a hundred people at your wedding.”
“Back in New York,” she said, “there would have been no wedding. Regardless, it seemed to me that there were at least that many at the Pennyroyal. That was unanticipated.”
“That was free liquor and curiosity.”
“Powerful motivators,” said Jane. “Still, it was kind of everyone to wish us well.”
“I didn’t know the half of them.”
“I never noticed that it mattered. They greeted you as a friend.”
Morgan grunted softly. He did not want to be their friend.
Jane said, “Why did you ask me to dance?”
“Should I have asked someone else?” His flippant response was met with silence. “It was only a matter of time before we were pushed onto the floor. It seemed wiser to take it on my own terms.”
“I thought it might be something like that. I wanted to believe that you enjoyed it, but I do not think you did.”
“Did I make a fool of myself?”
“No.”
“Did I make you feel foolish?”
“No!”
Morgan shrugged. “Then that’d be as much as I hoped for.”
There was only silence after that.
• • •
Jane stood beside the bed that she was meant to share with Morgan while he carried in her bags and trunk. She had offered to take one of the bags, but he would not allow it. He told her that tomorrow morning was soon enough for her to start toting, lugging, and hauling, and that when she looked back on it, she would be grateful he had spared her the chore tonight.
Jane was not sure that was true. She needed something to do. She had already placed her gloves, scarf, and coat at the front door, and now she stood with her hands at her sides, fidgeting with the folds in her flared skirt.
Morgan dropped both bags on the chest at the foot of the bed. “Do you sleep in that hat?”
Jane’s hands flew to her head.
Morgan cocked an eyebrow. “I guess not.” He turned and headed out. “Getting your trunk now.”
Jane removed
her hat and looked around for somewhere to put it. She was reluctant to shift any of Morgan’s personal items on top of the dresser to make room for hers. There was no vanity, and the table on the far side of the bed already held a lamp and two books. An empty water glass and carafe sat on the table closest to her. There was a rocking chair beside the window, but she could foresee either herself or Morgan crushing the hat if she left it on the seat. The hook on the inside of the door that led to the small, utilitarian washroom was most likely meant to hold a towel or robe, although she saw evidence of neither. Still, living with the Ewings had taught her the importance of territory, both having it and respecting it. She was determined not to encroach.
Jane eyed the wardrobe again and settled on placing the hat on top of it. She also decided that she would buy a hatbox on her very next trip to town. It pained her some that she had left a very nice one behind.
She was standing on tiptoe, pushing the black velvet hat in place, when Morgan reentered the room.
He set the trunk down, came up behind her, and gave the hat a nudge. It slid several inches beyond Jane’s reach. “I suppose you’re going to need a footstool.”
“If you continue to help in this manner, I will.” She lowered herself from her tiptoes but could not step back. He was there, right behind her, and when his outstretched arm came down, his palm brushed the curve of her shoulder. Jane went very still. For a moment, she could not breathe. It could not have been long at all before his hand fell away, but it seemed to Jane as if time slowed, stopped, and only resumed its march when he retreated one step, then another, until he finally put enough space between them that she could no longer feel the heat of him at her back.
Jane expected to see Morgan standing near the bed when she turned. He wasn’t. He was facing the dresser, his Stetson overturned in one hand, and he was filling the crown with the very items that she had been too respectful to move aside. She watched, her dark eyebrows rising in conjunction with her astonishment, as he picked up his hairbrush and comb and dropped them into the hat. In short order, these items were joined by the bottle of Dr. Horace Johnstone’s Peppermint Tonic, a baking soda tin, toothbrush, box of matches, hand mirror, and shaving cup, soap, and razor. There was a leather strop hanging on one of the spindles that supported the dresser’s large mirror. He removed it, wound it neatly around his hand, and then slipped the coil off and added it to the contents in his hat.
“You can put your things here. Mrs. Sterling said that your kind of female would have little pots of creams and lotions and such. Perfume. Hair combs. Maybe a box for jewelry.”
Jane stared at him. Her kind of female? What did that mean?
“Do you?” he asked.
She nodded slowly.
“Well, you can put them here.” He waved one hand over the dresser’s cleared surface. “Will it be enough room?”
Jane found her voice. “Mr. Longstreet, I assure you I can—”
Morgan’s mouth twisted wryly. “About that. I figure since we’re married, you should call me Morgan.”
“All right. Morgan. As I was saying, I believe you and I—”
“And I should call you Jane.”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, of course. I think we can—”
“It’s a good name. Jane.”
“I suppose. Now, if I could . . .”
Morgan studied her, head tilted slightly to one side, eyes narrowed a fraction.
Finding herself the object of his intense interest once again, Jane sighed and asked somewhat impatiently, “What is it?”
Morgan would not be hurried. He continued to regard her thoughtfully. “I’m trying to decide if it suits you.”
“Does it really matter? It is my name. It is the one you will have to use if you hope to attract my attention. As you said, it is a good name.”
“Plain,” he said.
“Yes. Which is precisely why it suits. Now, if you would allow—”
“You believe that, don’t you? Plain Jane.”
Jane said nothing.
Morgan’s eyebrows lifted, and he made a sound at the back of his throat that could be interpreted as skepticism or satisfaction. “What was it you wanted to tell me?”
Jane’s lips parted before she realized her mind had gone perfectly blank. She blinked, and then recovered enough to give Morgan an accusing look. “I have quite forgotten.”
He shrugged. “That happens.”
“Not to me,” she said. “Not until now.”
“Could be a consequence of you being so tired. I noticed your eyelids were drooping back at the saloon.” He held his hat in front of him like an offering plate. “That’s why I collected my things. I’m taking them to the bedroom next door. I’ll sleep there. I expect the bed is comfortable enough. That will give you some time to accustom yourself to whatever it is a bride accustoms herself to. It’s new days, Jane.”
Jane remained perfectly still in spite of the fact that she thought her knees might buckle. All the anxiety she had harbored about sharing his bed had been for naught. He did not want her. She was going to sleep alone on her wedding night. Jane was sure she did not know how she was supposed to feel about that. Relieved? Worried? Frustrated? Offended? It seemed that she experienced all of those things but none so profoundly as unsettled.
Morgan had explained his thinking in a manner that made it seem he was acting out of consideration for her, but it was Jane’s experience that such consideration could mask contempt. She was afraid to trust it. Plain Jane. He had said the words aloud, the ones that had struck at her heart since childhood, the ones that she thought she had accepted, even embraced with the fierceness of ownership.
Cousin Alex liked to tease her that she imagined herself as that other Jane, the Gothic novel heroine who found love with the equally unappealing, but infinitely more tortured, Mr. Rochester. Jane found it best not to respond to Alex’s sardonic remarks, especially when it was liquor that pickled his wit, but there were times she had wondered if there might not be some element of truth in his observations. It was not necessarily uncomfortable to be Plain Jane. Acceptance merely hinged on reduced expectations; not for herself, but for how others regarded her.
Now that he had met her, married her, Morgan Longstreet had reduced expectations. She suspected he was trying to come to terms with them. Jane could appreciate that. She did not make the mistake of supposing he was Mr. Rochester. No doubt he required time alone to master his disappointment.
To stop fiddling with the fabric of her skirt, Jane folded her hands in front of her. “It is new days,” she said quietly. “I am not averse to sharing the top of the dresser with you. I think we might manage to find room for your things and mine. I think you will agree it is a beginning. Sharing. One of the things I expect a bride—and her husband—must accustom themselves to. The bed can wait, if you think that best, but perhaps we should learn to dance in each other’s space.”
“You want me to keep my things in here?”
“I want you to do as you wish. I am merely saying I do not mind if you keep your things here.”
Morgan cradled the crown of his hat in one hand while he raked his hair with the other. He scratched behind his ear. “I’m feeling my way here.”
“So am I.”
“I didn’t expect you to be so accommodating.”
“Compromising.”
“If there’s a difference there, I’m not grasping it.” He held up a hand when Jane would have explained. “It’s all right. I don’t need to learn about it now.” He carefully turned over the Stetson so the objects he collected began to spill out. He arranged them on the left side of the dresser top. “Will that do for you?”
“It will do fine.”
He nodded. “Do you want to use the washroom first? That’s what you meant by learning to dance in each other’s space, isn’t it?”
“Yes. That’s what I meant. But you use it first. I have to unpack some things.”
“All right.” Morgan picked up the to
othbrush and baking soda tin. On the point of entering the washroom, he paused. “Towels, soap, sponges. They’re all in here.”
“I saw.”
“A washup will have to do tonight,” he said. “Tomorrow, I’ll help you draw and heat enough water for a bath.”
“I would like that.”
“Maybe not, once you take notice of the work involved.”
“I’m not afraid of work, Mr. Longstreet.”
“Morgan.”
“Morgan,” she repeated. “Another thing to which this bride shall have to become accustomed.” Before he disappeared into the washroom, Jane thought she glimpsed his wry grin and a faint headshake. Both responses puzzled her, but by the time a question occurred to her, he was closing the door and shutting her out.
Jane worked quickly, emptying the valises first. Each of them was packed tightly with cotton, wool, and flannel undergarments that included petticoats, corsets, camisoles, and drawers. Tucked between those items were stockings, suspenders, gloves, and the various pots of cream and lotions that Morgan had suspected comprised the whole of their contents. At the bottom of one bag was the cookbook she had purchased expressly for her new position as wife of a rancher. At the bottom of the other, she discovered an item that she had not packed, another book, placed there by Alex, she suspected. When she lifted it and saw it was Jane Eyre, her suspicions were confirmed. She imagined he thought it was a very good joke. If he were within sight, Jane would have thrown the damn thing at his head.
The man she had bound herself to was not Mr. Rochester. The most obvious distinction was a physical one. Morgan Longstreet had a pleasing, symmetrical countenance that was only saved from true beauty by the scar at the right corner of his mouth. Although it pained her to admit it, she was selfishly glad of that flaw. For his features to be so otherwise cast in a fashion that evoked thoughts of marble gods was a burden to her, and she had dwelled on it nightly while examining his photograph in the privacy of her bedroom. She also took some comfort that his coloring was different than she had been able to imagine. As it happened, he was no blond Adonis in the drawing room style of Alexander Ewing. Jane counted that as a mark in Morgan Longstreet’s favor. It was yet another way she had risked so much by accepting his invitation. No amount of study could have prepared her for the thatch of orange that he kept mostly hidden under his hat. And his fair complexion was lightly freckled where it was unprotected from the sun. Alex would have hated that. Jane was relieved by it.
