by Deeanne Gist
White, purple, and red flowers festooned her carriage’s frame while evergreens and arbor vines wreathed the supports of its canopy. The finest decoration by far, however, was the collection of little girls sitting at Miss Ottfried’s feet. Crowns of dainty white flowers rested upon heads of golden curls, their frothy white dresses poofing about them. A more lovely group of train bearers he’d never seen.
Miss Ottfried’s gaze traveled across the crowd, snagging on Georgie. The girl’s smile stiffened. Switching her flowers to the other hand, she turned to the opposite side of the street and began to wave again.
Georgie looked down, her teeth catching her lower lip.
Reaching for her hand, he tucked it in his elbow and gave it a squeeze.
Two carriages containing the queen’s maids of honor followed, with the speakers’ wagonette next, the Hook and Ladder Company, the Bellville brass band, and finally, the decorated wagons and floats representing German mythology, German history, local businesses, and social societies.
Luke recalled his hometown’s parades on the Fourth of July. One year, instead of wrapping his little wooden wagon with bunting, he’d painted its sides red with big white stars. When he was done, the stars looked more like giant circles, but he’d never forgotten the pride he felt pulling his little brother behind him in such a finely turned-out cart.
This parade, however, was nothing like home’s. He couldn’t imagine New York City itself putting out a finer, more elaborate show. A two-seated surrey with a yellow-and-black scheme passed by. A single white horse drew a creation in pink chrysanthemums. And then Georgie’s float, its red-rose cardinal flying high over the procession.
Ladies ooohed, gentleman hooted, children pointed. From inside the carriage, Mr. and Mrs. Patrick saw the two of them, their smiles widening, their waves more insistent. Laughing, Georgie used her entire arm to wave back, jumping up and down like a schoolgirl.
A well of protectiveness bubbled up inside him. She was so young. So naïve. And she had no idea he wasn’t a telephone repairman.
His impromptu marriage proposal flashed through his mind. Never once had he thought the break-in might jeopardize her reputation. He’d been too long on the move. Too out of touch with what it was like to live in a town where everybody knew everybody else’s business.
Had he known what it would come down to, he’d have led Necker and Duane to the float. But he hadn’t known. He should have, though. He should have.
Georgie clasped her hands together, resting them against her lips as she regarded the back of the Plumage League’s carriage. Thanks to the Patricks, it appeared as if her reputation would remain intact.
And though he was grateful, he was also, strangely enough, disappointed there’d be no need for a wedding. He found himself wondering what changes he’d have made if she’d said yes.
Would he quit his job? Two months ago the thought would have been ludicrous. Now, however, when he lay down at night, instead of dwelling on lawbreakers and hideouts and desperados, he dwelt on Georgie.
Georgie wearing a blue gingham apron in a bright, sunny kitchen. Clamping her tongue between her teeth when she withdrew his splinters. Laughing when he said something which somehow amused her. Frowning when he refused to capitulate or agree with her.
Even during the days she’d haunt his thoughts. His duties as troubleman required time on lonely roads and quiet hillsides. More and more he’d catch himself ruminating like a lovesick swain.
He’d picture her feeding birds out of her hand. Protecting them by beating off cats, educating children, or spearheading a countywide campaign. He’d picture her at the switchboard looking out her window with opera glasses and exclaiming over every species that visited her fiefdom.
And now, he pictured her squaring up to her intruders, determined to protect those hats without thought to her own safety. His blood turned cold. Thank the good Lord he’d been there. No telling what would’ve happened.
A bystander jostled her, momentarily bumping her into his side. Brief as the contact was, desire flared within him.
She looked up, her face suddenly solemn and mirroring his inner turmoil.
He placed a hand against her waist, under the guise of steadying her, though she’d already righted herself. “Careful. You all right?”
She zigzagged her gaze, as if she couldn’t decide which of his eyes would give her a glimpse into his soul. He grazed his knuckles along the buttons running up her back, the urge to kiss her overwhelming.
Tearing his eyes away, he looked around for an alley, an alcove—anything that would give them a moment’s privacy. But there was nothing. Just wall-to-wall people.
Another jostle. Another bump. This time, he splayed his hand wide, holding her against him for the briefest of moments.
I’m not who you think I am. I’m Lucious Landrum. Texas Ranger of Company “A” and, God help me, but I think I’m in love with you.
Her lips tilted up. Her lashes swept down.
His stomach clenched. Had he said that out loud?
But no, she returned to her own two feet and tugged her gloves into place as if his world had not come crashing down around him.
“You want to head to the pavilion?” She shook out her skirt. “The queen’s coronation will start as soon as the last of the floats arrive.”
He extended his arm. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
With her tiny hand tucked inside his elbow, they turned onto North Street and headed to Firemen’s Park. If his arm skimmed her side or her skirts brushed his leg, neither tried to correct it. But both tried to ignore it.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“I planted die Cotton pretty thick,” Finkel said. He’d exchanged his overalls for a fancy plaid suit. “‘One for den Cutworm, one for die Crow, one for den Blackbird, and one to grow.’”
Luke chuckled at the German rendition of the old saying, but Georgie tuned out his response.
The sun splashed warmth onto her cheeks, the sky looking as if heaven had been swept clean with a broom. A vast lawn of emerald grass provided a cushion for ladies in wide-brimmed hats and high-necked bodices, their bustlines covered with pouty fronts. Behind them, skirts and trains flowed over ample hips, giving them the popular S-silhouette.
A young man who’d outgrown the length of his trousers removed his hat and bowed deeply to a group of ladies close to Georgie’s age. All but one giggled behind their fans. The sober member was younger than the rest, her heart clearly on her sleeve. She’d yet to receive her womanly curves and sought to help nature along with rows of frills inside her bodice, achieving a rather unnatural ripple effect.
As the girl passed the tall Maypole erected for the day’s festivities, she grasped one of its long, trailing ribbons, allowing it to slither through her fingers. But the boy never noticed. He had eyes for another.
A scissortailed flycatcher, twice as long in tail as in body, swooped over some buttonbush, catching insects on the wing and drawing Georgie’s attention to the plethora of exhibits lining the perimeter of the park and beyond.
Women manning vegetable booths set out trays of beans, peas, okra, cucumbers, and squash. A roped-off area held a stack of burlap sacks and a sign for races. Men crouched over a long log and soaped it with bars of lye.
The squeal of a pig caused many to turn toward a fenced-in area. One man held the animal by the head while another greased it up.
It was then she saw Mr. Ottfried’s exhibit. He’d brought hats of every color and style. Some chic, some dainty, some somber. All held flagrant bird parts. Attached to the roof of his tent, a painted sign with curlicues and fancy lettering swung in the breeze. Today Only . . . 2-for-1.
She wondered again if he had anything to do with the break-in. He hadn’t been one of the intruders, of that she was certain. Still, he stood to gain the most from her troubles.
Scanning the area for the Plumage League’s location, she whispered an “Excuse me” to Luke, then released his arm. On the opposite side of the
park, their exhibit spanned two booths. One for the hats, another for the hat walk.
She veered toward it, stunned at the entries crowding every surface. High, puffy toques, tricornes with wavy brims, and stylish short-back sailors congested the tables. In the corner, summer leghorn hats spilled out of a chiffonier’s open drawers. Opposite it, an open steamer trunk sat on its end, box turbans and shepherdess-style hats stacked inside its compartments.
None had bird parts.
She stopped in front of the booth, unable to comprehend where such abundance had come from.
The mayor’s daughter, Rachel Zach, lovely in a white lingerie dress and matching Gainsborough hat, caught her eye and smiled. “Can you believe it? We’ve even more under the tables.”
Robbi Bittle, a recently wed League member, moved beside Rachel and pointed to an oak parlor stand. Atop it lay a ledger, pen, and inkwell. “Wait until you see our pledge sheets.”
Georgie angled the booklet toward her. Signature after signature filled its columns. She flipped back a page. More signatures. She turned back another and another.
Mrs. Bittle clasped her hands in front of her. “Three hundred thirty-seven so far.”
Georgie shook her head. “I don’t understand. How . . . ?”
“It’s all Mrs. Patrick’s doing,” Rachel said. “You know how she is when she’s on a mission. There isn’t a person on God’s green earth who can say no to her.”
Mrs. Bittle pointed toward the grandstand. “The winning hats—the ones Mr. Mistrot will sell in his store—are over there.”
She turned. A large pavilion with fresh robes of white sat amidst a wooded grove. Beneath its roof a thousand chairs provided ample room for those in attendance. To the right of the stage, a display of five hats rested on a cloth-covered table.
“Whose hat won?” Georgie asked.
“Janice Spuhler’s.”
She spun around. “Mrs. Spuhler? Really?”
At Mrs. Bittle’s affirmative nod, Georgie ran her gaze across the crowd, hoping to spot the unassuming widow who didn’t say much but had a sparkle in her eye and never missed a thing.
“She was late finishing it,” Rachel said, “and didn’t have time to bring it by your house yesterday.”
Georgie bit her lip. “So it wasn’t burned.”
“No. And it’s absolutely divine. It’s the one in the center on the highest hat form.”
Before she could look, Luke caught her attention.
Heading toward her, his strides were long and unwavering. The straps of his overalls divided wide shoulders clad in a white chambray shirt. The denim bib was small compared to the breadth of his chest.
Reaching them, he glanced at the women manning the booth and touched the brim of his hat. “Good morning, ladies. You’re looking lovely, as usual.”
“Mr. Palmer.”
He held his arm out to Georgie, his eyes conveying pleasure and admiration. “The band’s taken their seats on the rostrum. Should we head to the pavilion?”
Nodding, she thanked the girls, then hooked her hand in his elbow. She’d never been escorted to a festival before. Much like the young girl she’d seen earlier, she’d always been on the outside looking in.
But today, she was with the handsomest man in attendance. And his overalls were growing on her by the minute.
“As president of the Plumage League, I’ll be crowning the Maifest Queen,” she said. “They’ve reserved us seats up front.”
He changed course, heading toward the royal procession, which had parked just outside the pavilion. Courtiers laid a red carpet walk for Her Royal Highness. Squires stood ready to escort her when the signal was given.
Luke and Georgie slipped into their seats just as the band played “God Save the Queen.”
“That’s my cue,” Georgie whispered. She had no trouble discerning which hat Mrs. Spuhler had made. Lilies-of-the-valley trimmed its brim. A collection of white silk loops covered its bandeau, while streamers of polka dot netting held the confection in place.
She fell in line behind the little Montgomery and Cutler cousins proudly carrying their queen’s train. After all were assembled on stage, the band concluded their song, the crowd quieted.
Judge Yoakum presented Miss Ottfried with her regal insignia of rank and the scepter of sovereignty. The girl smiled her thanks, then turned to Georgie, her eyes frosting.
For the first time, Georgie realized this honor would be bestowed upon the girl not only by her father’s nemesis, but with a crown in direct protest to her father’s very livelihood.
Georgie’s step faltered. The election by popular ballot for Maifest Queen hadn’t been held until this morning. It never occurred to her the recipient would be Miss Ottfried.
Still, the winning hat was deliciously stylish. Would be the envy of any woman.
Swallowing, she lifted her arms and settled it on Miss Ottfried’s head, carefully securing it with a hatpin. She smoothed a streamer of netting underneath the girl’s chin, up the other side, and began to tie the ends together.
Of the same height, they stood toe to toe, nose to nose. Georgie lowered her gaze. The girl had the loveliest eyes she’d ever seen. A light, light brown surrounded by a dark brown ring.
“You look beautiful,” Georgie whispered. And she meant it.
In a lily-white moiré silk dress with bead trimmings and pearl ornaments, Lillie bore herself with dignity. “Thank you.”
Georgie finished the bow, fluffed it, then stepped back and made a low curtsy. The applauding crowd cheered. Miss Ottfried stepped forward to make her acceptance speech while Georgie slipped off the platform and back to her seat.
Luke surreptitiously squeezed her hand, but she didn’t dare look at him. Her feelings were too jumbled. Too confused. Not just about him, but about the Ottfrieds.
She’d thought of the milliner as an object, an obstruction, a hindrance to her birds. Not as a father with a beautiful and gracious daughter.
Behind that thought came the realization he’d had to sit in the audience and watch. Watch the bane of his existence crown his most treasured possession with a hat representing a cause he diametrically opposed. A crown his daughter would be required to wear the entire day.
Heat moved from Georgie’s neck clear up to her hairline. She forced the blush away, refusing to feel guilty about campaigning for her birds. Nor would she feel guilty about the hat. It was stunning. Gorgeous. And his daughter looked every inch the queen.
The ledger at their booth with three hundred thirty-seven signatures flashed through her mind. Three hundred thirty-seven women had pledged not to wear or purchase hats with bird parts on them. Even hats on special, 2-for-1.
She took a deep breath. Before the day was through, more would certainly add their names to the list. Had Mr. Ottfried brought any non-bird hats to sell? What if the women misunderstood and thought they had to quit frequenting shops which carried hats with bird parts? What would happen to his business? His wife? Lillie Ottfried?
On stage, Lillie took a seat upon her throne, her train bearers arranging her gown amidst lilies, violets, and roses. The fire chief stepped to the podium, delivering a history of Brenham and Washington County, recounting incidents and legends that had been passed down since Richard Fox Brenham arrived at Washington on the Brazos in 1836.
Georgie pictured the hats on Ottfried’s tables. For every one an innocent bird had died. She searched the wooded copse beyond the stage. Somewhere in there a waxwing might be sitting politely digesting a meal of berries without disturbing a thing around it. An oriole might be weaving grasses with far more precision than any basket a person could make. A whippoorwill might be ridding the town of mosquitoes, gnats, June bugs, and katydids.
No. She would not feel sorry for Mr. Ottfried. Especially when there were things he could do to compensate. He had only to look to Mr. Mistrot’s example for ways to cleverly construct artificial birds, feathers, and quills.
She had nothing personal against Mr. Ott
fried, nor his family. And if he mended his ways, she would quit her campaign against his millinery. Until then, however, she would stand firm and continue to do all she could to save the birds.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Though it wasn’t oppressively warm, many patrons, including Luke’s suspects, sampled the beer imported clear from St. Louis at Thirsty Man’s booth. Necker, Duane, Finkel, and Ragston had spent part of the day with their families, and a good deal more of it with each other.
If Frank Comer was in attendance, he was keeping well away from them, though an out-of-town fellow by the name of Prysborski received an overly warm welcome from the suspects. Luke had briefly visited with him and each of the others, met their families, then sat with the men during the baseball game while Georgie took a turn manning the Plumage League’s booth.
He picked up no new information. Still, the more time he spent with them, the more they would grow to trust him. No mention was made of their foray into Georgie’s home, nor of any upcoming train job.
But there was plenty of talk about Hurless Swanning, the man from the shooting tournament. Seemed he’d lost his life in a runaway carriage down in Cut ’N Shoot. While Blesinger and Duane shared what details they’d heard, Necker, Finkel, and Ragston remained strangely quiet.
After the game, Luke and Georgie waited for the sun to completely set and the evening’s dance to begin. They wandered through the pleasure grounds, listened to the fiddlers’ contest, and visited with the townsfolk.
Though the hobby-horse man still collected two pennies from anxious boys and girls, the line to his rocking steed was beginning to wane. Georgie pointed to one of her students as he was awarded a prize for catching the greased pig, then smiled over the fact he’d ruined his suit accomplishing the feat. In the center of the park, twelve charming little girls wove ribbons around the Maypole.
He noted Bettina watching the dancers when she thought no one was looking. Steering Georgie that direction, he pretended surprise when they happened upon her.
