by Sharon Ihle
"Oh, Nikki," Libbie encouraged. "It's not that bad. It only says you'll be getting married, as any young lady should. You will be chaste and pure on that special day. What's so terrible about that?"
Dominique shrugged. "It doesn't sound very exciting, especially when you consider I don't even have a beau." She immediately thought of Jacob, of his smoldering gaze. Here, she supposed, was a man who could burn the innocence from her body with only a dark, roguish glance, answer all of her questions with his fiery touch. Here was the kind of man who could teach her to be a woman. Dominique shivered at the thought.
Unmindful of her niece's indecent musings, Libbie offered a suggestion. "Now, don't think I'm rushing you into anything—marriage or any kind of courtship—but you must be blind. Haven't you noticed the streams of husband material lining up for a chance to court you?"
"Husband material?" Dominique wrinkled her nose. Is that what she really wanted—a husband? She glanced at Libbie and sighed. Her aunt was a woman who'd groomed herself to be the perfect complement to her man. What skills did she, Dominique, have to offer a man—an artistic flare, the ability to turn a blank canvas into a thing of beauty? Of what possible use could that feeble talent be? Again she sighed. "I'm not interested in finding a husband, Aunt Libbie. I don't think I'll ever get married."
"Why that's ridiculous. Of course you'll get married. And soon, I'll bet. Just last night in the parlor I noticed Captain Ruffing swooning, even if you didn't. The man is positively smitten, Nikki. Why don't you give him a chance?"
She thought of the long-haired officer and rolled her eyes. "I noticed him, but I don't like men who fawn all over me like that. I swear, he reminded me of Uncle Armstrong's staghound, Cardigan, drooling all over me the way he did."
"I doubt he was that bad, but even if he was, you can't blame a man for admiring you."
"I can so. That's not what I want from a beau. I like ... I mean, what I really want is ..." Jacob. "Oh, bloody hell, I don't know what I want."
"Nikki. I simply will not permit that kind of language in this house."
"Oh, Aunt Libbie, I am sorry. I meant no disrespect." Knowing she must sound ungrateful and ill-mannered, Dominique sighed. "I don't know what comes over me. Sometimes it's as if my mouth runs all by itself—and such language. I realize this is no excuse, but I think I must have picked it up from Grandpa Custer."
Libbie's sparrow-like features softened, became girlish and nonjudgmental again. "Don't be too hard on yourself, dear. Grandpa Custer does have a penchant for foul language, and he's not particular about who's in the vicinity when he spouts off.''
"Just the same." Dominique hung her head and took an exaggerated breath. "I don't deserve to live in a fine home like this. You would be completely within your rights to pack me up and ship me off to the ends of the earth. California, even."
"Now, darling." Libbie scooted closer to her niece and slipped her arm around her slumped shoulders. "That's enough. You'll make yourself melancholy with these thoughts. We were having such a good time. All is forgiven. Let's talk about other things. Perhaps there is something special you'd like to do tonight."
The devil, who found a very comfortable home there, sprang back into Dominique's eyes. "Well," she hedged, knowing exactly what she wanted out of her aunt—and from the evening, "I did enjoy yesterday's card party tremendously. Maybe we could have a few people in again tonight. And I adore listening to you play the piano."
"Then it's done." Her smile bright, Libbie hopped off the bed. "We'd better send out a few notes of invitation right away. Remember, this night is for you and your enjoyment. Is there anyone special you'd like to ask?"
Dominique made a great show of considering the guest list. With an air of nonchalance, she finally said, "I can't think of a soul. You choose the guests. You're so good at filling a room full of compatible people. I can't imagine how I can add to the list, unless of course, you think it would be proper to ask Jacob Stoltz."
"Stoltz?" Libbie pressed a finger against her temple. "I'm sorry, Nikki. I don't seem to remember him."
"He's the soldier who is giving me riding lessons. I'd like to thank him for his patience by having him join us this evening. Is that all right with you?"
"Oh, him." Libbie bit her lip. "I think it's commendable you want to thank the young man, dear, but have you forgotten that he's only a private?"
"I realize that, but I do feel sorry for him. He's quite backward, you know.” Dominique laughed, hoping to lighten her aunt's mood. "Why the poor soul has never even seen a sidesaddle. He actually thought I should learn to ride Peaches astride. Have you ever?"
The women shared a laugh and Libbie shook her head. "I understand he's from parts west. Lord knows what they expect of their ladies, if there are any requirements at all, that is."
"Exactly my point." Dominique pushed off the bed and bounced over to her aunt. "Think what a kindness it will be for us to open your grand home to a young man who can never have hoped to see anything like it. Why, you'll go down in history as a kind and generous bearer of the great Custer name."
"Nikki, please." Libbie blushed, but her mind was busy mulling over the idea, loving the thought. At last, she raised her brows and her tone. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt. Autie is always after me to make sure I don't offend the common folk or allow myself to get carried away with the other officers' wives in our evaluations of those less fortunate. Yes," she said with a resolute nod. "I think Autie would be pleased if I were to entertain this unfortunate soldier in his absence. Would you like to write his note yourself?"
Her heart soaring, Dominique swallowed hard and took a breath. "Since we're having guests this evening, I really should be seeing to my toilet, but I suppose I could take the time to make the private feel truly welcome. All right." Fighting the urge to skip, she forced an easy stroll on her way to the writing table. "When the note is finished, I'll have one of the servants take it to him."
"That's a very kind gesture, Nikki. Your uncle will be very proud of you. I'll leave you now. I suddenly have a lot to do."
Dominique blew her aunt a kiss and waited until she'd passed through the doorway before she allowed herself to celebrate. She raised her arms above her head and sang a silent song, wriggled to the imaginative tune, and tapped her toes against the hardwood floor before she set about her task. When her heartbeat returned to normal, Dominique took a piece of pale pink parchment and dabbed the corners with lilac toilet water. Then she put her quill to the paper and, using her best script, jotted the invitation in a few short sentences.
As he brushed Dandy's sleek coat, Jacob hummed one of the new tunes he'd learned since joining the cavalry. Tonight he would ride the line, take his first turn at sentry duty. If he proved to be reliable, useful even, he could look forward to this post as a regular part of his responsibilities. And gaining the job as sentry for the Seventh Cavalry could be a critical maneuver for the Lakota's plans.
Smiling to himself, Jacob hummed louder, cutting off the outside world.
"You Private Stoltz?"
The voice startled him. Dropping into a crouch as he whirled around, he assumed a position of combat. When he spotted the "enemy," Jacob let the brush fall from his hand, then resumed an upright stance.
"Take it easy, fella," the servant cried out as she took several backward steps. "I brung you this here note from the Custer house. I don't want no trouble." She sailed the salmon-colored envelope toward the private, then turned and ran from the barn.
"Forgive me," Jacob called after the dark-skinned woman, "I did not hear your approach." He cut off further apologies when he realized he was the only one listening to them. Glancing down at his feet, he regarded the note, then bent over and took the thick paper between his fingers. As he lifted it to his line of vision, the scent of springtime and prairie flowers reached his nostrils. Dominique.
Anxious to know what she had sent him, he carefully peeled open the seal. Inside he found more paper. His enthusiasm turned to despair when h
e unfolded the parchment and found a scribbled message inside. She'd written him a note. In English. The language he'd never really had the time to learn to read, with an alphabet he'd hadn't seen in nearly twenty winters.
Not knowing what to do, afraid to show the Long Knives yet another of their customs and rituals with which he was unfamiliar, Jacob blew out a heavy sigh. Why had she written to him? To thank him for a job not yet completed? Or was this some kind of summons, an order relieving him of his duties where she was concerned? If it was the latter, he could hardly blame her or the men in command. The soldier who taught an important woman like Dominique DuBois should at least have some idea what kind of saddle she would prefer. Jacob laughed as he recalled the odd leather seat with not one but two horns, and the strange unnatural way a lady was expected to sit upon it. Then he looked down at the note again. What was he to do?
He folded the paper and put it back in the envelope. Then he slipped the fragrant pink note inside the shirt pocket nearest his heart.
She'd floated down the stairs one hour ago. Her frock was second in elegance only to the gown she'd worn to the Saint Patrick's Day ball. Made of white gauze of an incredibly silky texture, the dress was trimmed in rich grass-green satin and accented with a wide sash of the same material. Even her shoes, fashionable to the point of having the newest high heel, were lined in green silk and woven in shades of green and black on a creamy background. Dominique tapped one of these shoes against the mahogany rocker of her aunt's favorite chair, and peered out the window.
Jacob was late. Etiquette demanded he arrive over an hour ago, as the invitation instructed. It wasn't every private who was invited to the general's quarters, so where was he? Dominique turned toward the sounds of high-pitched laughter and managed a wan smile. The honored guests were enjoying themselves tremendously—or at least pretending they were. Libbie was seated at her precious piano, turning the pages of a music book. Her dress, a respectable black silk, was set off by black jet beading on the basque and around the hem of the polonaise. The ensemble, several stylish levels above the costumes of muslin and gingham her guests wore, represented Libbie's set of stripes and brass, an identifying uniform of sorts for the wife of the post commander.
Again irritated by the conventions of the military hierarchy, the distinct separations between social levels, Dominique turned back toward the window. The scenery remained unchanged. By the gentle, sleepy glow of dusk, she could look out over the kitchens and mess hall to the stables. Beyond that, the Missouri raged past, tamed enough now by the spring thaw for reasonably safe navigation. The muddy waters pushed onward, twisting as they collided with the mouth of the Heart River, and drove toward their final goal, the great Mississippi. All was as it should be—as far as nature was concerned, anyway.
Averting her gaze, ignoring what ought to have been a tranquilizing scene, Dominique stabbed the needle through the sampler she'd been trying to embroider since her arrival at the fort. She hated needlework of any kind, especially when it was done only as busy work. She looked down at the material and regarded the message she was trying to embellish with lengths of colored thread: "Home is where the heart is." For some maybe, she thought with an inward grumble. But what about her heart? Would it ever be stolen, fulfilled—broken? For tonight, it didn't seem likely that any of those things would ever happen to her.
Even though she realized she ought to be mingling with her aunt's other guests, Dominique continued to stab the innocent square of yard goods. This time her aim was off, and the needle pierced her tender flesh. "Ouch," she cried, bringing the injured fingertip to her mouth.
Boston Custer chose just that moment to join her. "Why are you off in the corner poking holes in yourself instead of singing with the rest of us, Nikki? We miss your sparkling smile and infectious laughter."
Dominique stared up at him, her finger still in the care of her soothing mouth, and shrugged.
“Let me have a look at that.'' He reached over and took her by the wrist.
Twisting away, Dominique shook her head. "I'm all right, Uncle Bos, really I am."
"Then join in the gaiety. Our guests look to fun-lovers like you and me to set the pace. I believe if Millie Huffman doesn't find something to laugh about soon, she'll shrivel up and fall down inside that stiff collar she has hugging her righteous neck."
As always, Boston Custer found a way to untie Dominique's laces and make her laugh. She grinned up at him, giggling under her breath, as she pictured Major Huffman's wife trapped inside her very proper and voluminous dress. Of the three Custer brothers serving their country at Fort Lincoln, Boston was the least military minded. Although Armstrong and Tom were both endowed with a playful sense of humor, Boston made a career of it. All he seemed to think about was the pursuit of fun and beautiful women. He was physically dissimilar as well. Both older brothers had red-blond hair and blue eyes, but the youngest Custer sported a head of coffee-colored locks and looked at life through hazel eyes.
Feeling a kinship and warmth for Boston that was more brotherly than anything, Dominique pushed herself out of the rocker. "All right, you win. First let me stop by the kitchen. I'll join you in a minute."
"The kitchen?" Boston's eyelids popped open, and he brought his palms against his cheeks with a resounding pop. "God almighty, little girl. Haven't you been paying attention to your illustrious uncle, the boy lord general?"
Dominique stood on tiptoe and peered over his shoulder to see if the other guests—or Libbie—had heard. Satisfied Boston's irreverence hadn't crossed the threshold, she released her pent-up laughter.
Pleased to see his niece acting like herself again, Boston added a startlingly accurate imitation of the general's voice to his words as he went on. "He'd say, 'Why, Libbie, you cute little sunbeam in this boy's heart, if I've told you once I've told you a thousand times—I can't stand to see my little girl even pass by the kitchen door. Those sweet hands are much too delicate for such work. Yes, ma'am, they're better suited for brushing my long golden curls and massaging my neck, which has grown weary from carrying my oversized head around, and they're just made for polishing my boots, cleaning my horse's hooves, oh, and digging—' "
"Uncle Bos." Dominique choked the name out through a fit of laughter. "Why, if Uncle Armstrong knew how you spoke of him, he'd have you court-martialed."
Laughing along with her, Boston said, "It would be worth it to see you laugh. A girl as pretty as you should never have cause to frown. Come on, now—let's join the old hens and see if we can't ruffle their feathers."
Dominique bit her lip to keep from laughing as she strolled by the ladies. She gave each of them a short nod, explaining as she passed, "I have something to attend to in the kitchen, but I'll join you all in a moment. Aunt Libbie? I'll be speaking with Mary. Is there anything else you need by way of refreshments?"
Libbie took a fast inventory and shook her head. "We're all right for now, but do ask her to warm the cobbler. Oh," she added as an afterthought, "and don't dawdle too long. You know how Autie feels about his girls going into the kitchen."
Trying to catch Dominique's attention, Millie Huffman waved her hanky and said, "Tell Mary not to fix any cobbler for me. I'm fairly straining against my stays as it is after last night's sweet cake!"
Millie chuckled, but her laughter sounded more like cackles to Dominique who was already strangling on Libbie's words. The sudden image of a great white chicken flapping about in the yard—wearing Millie's dress, no less—tested her mettle and challenged her to keep a sober expression on her journey from the drawing room. Once in the hallway, she leaned against Libbie's new French satin wallpaper and took huge gulps of air. Her fragile control renewed, she continued on her way and found Mary laboring over the business end of a mop.
"Pardon me?"
The servant looked up from her work and dragged the back of her hand across her brow. "Yes'm?"
"The letter I gave you yesterday—did you make sure Private Stoltz received it?"
"Oh, ye
s, ma'am. I give it to my sister Annie. I know she give it to him, 'cause she says he scairt her half to death."
"And she's positive it was Private Stoltz and not some other soldier?"
"Annie is one worthless free gal, all right, her being born after President Lincoln signed them papers and all, but her stories is always wider than they is tall. She asked his name, she did, before he turned and made like he was gonna git her. It was Stoltz, all right."
"Thank you, Mary. Oh, Mrs. Custer wants you to warm the cobbler now."
Her heart heavy, Dominique retraced her steps, stopping at the same spot in the hallway. This time, instead of fighting convulsive laughter, she battled a dull ache within. Unused to the sensation, disliking the feeling intensely, she stabbed a freshly manicured fingernail at the maroon border running along the edges of the buff-colored wallpaper.
Jacob Stoltz would pay dearly for this breach of etiquette. He would rue the day he had chosen to ignore an invitation from Dominique DuBois. She would see to it that Uncle Armstrong gave him the most disgusting, most often avoided jobs in the entire army. She would have him sent into Indian territory on imaginary missions. She would see that his arrogance was rewarded with a thousand arrows to his heart. And a thousand more to his backside.
