by Regina Scott
So could he. Lounging on the porch, his feet up on the railing, keeping an eye on the city below. Sitting down to dinner with his wife and children around him, a wife with sunny curls, blue eyes and a smile that brightened his life.
Hart turned away from the place. “It’s a fine house, but it’s not for me. Now, I need to get back to work.”
* * *
Oh! Honestly, sometimes she just didn’t understand him. She’d seen his eyes light as he’d looked over the house. Now he stomped down the hill as if she’d taken him on a snipe hunt rather than to a perfectly acceptable home.
She glanced back at it one last time before following him. It really was perfect. She could imagine living there, sewing lacy curtains for the windows, setting rose-patterned china on the table to welcome family and friends. She could build a house just like it on her claim, or rather her brothers could, but this one tugged at her heart.
All the more reason to leave it be.
He must have slowed, because she caught up to him easily. “You promised to procure tickets to one of Fanny Morgan Phelps’s performances,” she informed him, striding past.
“Can’t see how that does me any good,” he grumbled as he lengthened his stride to pace her.
“I told you—attending a cultural event will show the ladies of Seattle you have refinement of spirit. If you will not look for a home, at least you could go to the theatre.”
The idea seemed perfectly logical to her, but he cast her a look as if she had suggested that he ride Arno to the moon. She made her face as stern as possible.
“Tonight, then,” he said. “I’ll stop by the Occidental and get tickets. I can look in on Mr. Schneider at the same time.”
Beth glared at him. “You were supposed to have this afternoon off.”
He met her glare with one of his own. “The law doesn’t take an afternoon off. Neither do criminals.”
“Oh! Hart McCormick, you are the most provoking man. I begin to believe the ladies were right to avoid you.”
“Good. Then we can stop this.”
“Fine. Only you get to tell Ursula Wyckoff.”
He stopped, and she nearly collided with him. He caught her shoulders as if to steady her. Her parasol bumped against her leg.
He lifted it aside, touch gentle and smile wry. “Sorry.”
Was he apologizing for the quick stop or his argumentative behavior? The skin had tightened across his cheeks, as if something tightened inside him as well.
Beth stepped back, gathering her composure. “Are we proceeding with this plan or not?”
His hands fell. “We’ll proceed. We’ll give them a show until they get tired of the drama and turn their attentions elsewhere.”
So, that was his game. “It’s no good, you know,” she said, falling into step with him as they headed into town. “They won’t give in so easily.”
“Neither will I.”
He left her at the Howard house and promised to retrieve her by six for the play. She wasn’t even sure if he could get tickets so close to the performance. It wasn’t every day one of the premiere acting companies from Victoria chose to go on tour. The troupe had been quite well received. But she was ready by half past five just in case.
Ever since she’d had charge of her own wardrobe at eighteen, she’d saved, studied fashion plates, watched for sales on material and helped Nora sew until Beth had a decent collection of gowns. Her brothers teased her that some were too fancy for the frontier, but none were completely impractical. Besides, just because she lived an entire continent away from sophisticated New York didn’t mean she couldn’t turn herself out smartly.
She generally reserved her best gowns for worship services and special occasions. A night at the theatre—oh, very well, Yesler’s Hall that had once been his cookhouse—surely counted as the latter. Accordingly, she pulled on a sky-blue matte satin gown with a curved neck and puffed sleeves, put her hair up high and fixed it in place with mother-of-pearl combs and draped a white wool shawl about her shoulders.
“Too bad the flower crowns faded,” Gillian said as she helped her. “You’d look like a fairy princess.”
She felt a little like a fairy princess as she came down the stairs to wait for Hart. But when she opened the door to his knock a short time later, she found she was accompanying a prince.
Messieurs Black and Powell had managed to finish the waistcoat and trousers, doing a superb job of fitting them to Hart’s lean frame. The gray material outlined long legs and a slender waist. The pattern of the waistcoat emphasized the breadth of his chest. Instead of the suit coat, he had donned his leather duster, the length of which made it appear as if he was wearing a kingly robe. It was almost as if he’d come courting.
No, not that. She wasn’t ready to allow any such acquaintance, especially not with him. She was helping him attract a suitable wife, and it would not be her. Her heart gave a painful thump as if it agreed.
She put on a smile. “Mr. McCormick. I take it you were successful in procuring the tickets.”
He nodded, then offered her his arm. “It’s not far. Can you walk in that getup?”
“Why, such compliments. You quite turn my head.”
“I was more worried about you turning your ankle.”
Beth laughed despite herself. “I’ll be fine. Shall we go? I wouldn’t want to be late.” She put her hand on his arm and let him draw her from the house.
The sun had just set beyond the Olympics on the other side of the Sound, leaving the mountains silhouetted against a rosy orange sky. Already the temperature dipped, and she was glad to have Hart’s warmth beside her as they headed down the hill.
“So, what shall we have the pleasure of watching tonight?” she asked as the lights from the buildings along Mill Street began to glow.
“One perfectly suited to you,” he promised. “The Taming of the Shrew.”
Beth blinked and glanced his way, but she couldn’t make out his face in the growing dark. “I beg your pardon. Did you just call me a shrew?”
“No. You said you liked the funny ones. The clerk at the Occidental said it was a comedy about courting.”
Beth smiled. “Then I’m sure I’ll enjoy it.”
She thought his arm relaxed under her hand. “Good.”
They had been alone on the hill, but the closer they drew to Mill Street, the more people crowded around, gentlemen in top hats, ladies in fine wool cloaks. Excitement hung like a silvery moon in the air. Beth shivered with it, smile growing.
The sturdy wood building was awash in lights as they entered. Young Billy Prentice, the porter from Lowe’s hotel, grinned at her as he took the tickets. Then, as if remembering he was supposed to be a fancy usher in the tailcoat that sat too loose on his frame, he schooled his face and offered her his arm to lead her to their seats.
The first couple rows held padded chairs, but the rest of the hall was filled with simple wood benches. Billy took her and Hart to seats about halfway back.
“Enjoy the show, Miss Wallin, Deputy,” he said before hurrying to assist the next couple.
Hart glanced around. “Looks like they fancied up the place.”
As much as they could. The long, single-roomed hall had been used for everything from civic meetings and community recitals to Yesler’s annual Christmas party for his men. The space still smelled faintly of sausages. The biggest change was the wide raised platform on one end, lanterns all along the foot. Partitions on either side would allow the performers to wait until their cue. The painted backdrops must have come with the troupe itself, for she was fairly sure no one in Seattle would have any idea how to represent an Italian villa.
“So many people,” she murmured to Hart, glancing around. Voices rose and fell like the waves on Puget Sound as the seats filled. While most of those attending were couples or bachelors, she sighted several of the women she had once hoped to match to Hart. At least one was keeping an eye on him. Better and better. Even Mrs. Maynard, one of the Literary Societ
y members, glanced their way with approbation.
Then the play started, and she could think of nothing else. Fanny Morgan Phelps captured her imagination immediately. A tall woman with a buxom figure, her voice was commanding. Beth completely commiserated with the fair Katherine’s plight.
“Obedience,” she complained to Hart as they made their way toward the exit at the end of the play. “Is that the be-all and end-all of a marriage? If my husband attempted to starve me and deprive me of clothing to make me obey him, I’d have a thing or two to say about the matter.”
“What about that Bianca girl?” he countered. “Playing her suitors off each other. Mighty high-handed, if you ask me.”
“I grant you that was ill done. Oh, the entire lot of them have no sense whatsoever. If I had been matchmaking, I would have found someone much less wily for Katherine, someone who would dazzle her with romance, not attempt to master her.”
He cocked his head. “Dazzle her with romance?”
Her face was warming. “Yes, you know. Bringing her flowers.”
“Flowers.”
How could one word hold such skepticism? “Yes. Reciting poetry, singing under her window.”
He choked. “Singing?”
Beth swatted his arm. “Do not make light of it! It’s highly romantic. You should read the books Pa left us—now, those are heroes.”
He eyed her as if wondering, but Beth’s surety was growing. She grasped his arm. “Of course! I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. Poetry! The Literary Society is going to discuss the works of Vaughn Everard, a dashing English poet from early in the century. I take it he was quite the romantic figure. All the ladies at Wallin Landing adore him. Read his works, and you’ll know just what women want. If you follow his example, the ladies of Seattle will be following you in droves!”
Chapter Ten
Poetry? He’d been ridiculed growing up for his craving for reading. Books had been an easy target for theft and destruction at the orphanage. Certainly Jake Cathcart had had a good laugh.
“Dime novels?” the outlaw leader had scoffed when he’d caught Hart reading at the hideout they’d built in a wooded area. “You don’t need to read about outlaws, boy. You are one.” He’d taken the book and thrown it in the fire while the others cackled. Hart had been careful to hide the stories ever since.
But Beth had no such trouble. She’d laid out an entire curriculum by the time they reached the street through the crowds. “And The Courtship of Miles Standish, though you must take his approach as a cautionary tale.”
Apparently, Mr. Standish had done poorly in his courtship. That one might be worth reading for ideas on how to thwart the plans of the Literary Society. He was just glad none of the members in attendance tonight had approached to pressure Beth or him.
Beside him, Beth stiffened. “When did that happen?”
Hart followed her gaze to where Scout was helping Mrs. Jamison up into his buggy. The lady’s raven locks sparkled with jewels, and her evening gown was cut to emphasize her graceful curves. A diamond necklace adorned her throat.
A diamond? In Seattle?
Beth grabbed Hart’s arm and all but dragged him toward the carriage. “Scout! Thomas! Wait!”
Hands on the reins, Scout smiled at her from the seat, though his look cooled as Hart drew up beside her. “Beth, Deputy, nice to see you.”
Hart inclined his head. “Rankin. Mrs. Jamison.”
The lady’s smile was nearly as cold as the stones around her neck.
“Did you enjoy the play?” Scout asked.
“Tremendously,” Beth assured him for her and Hart. “I wish I’d noticed you. We could have sat together.”
“Mr. Rankin thoughtfully procured seats in the front row,” Mrs. Jamison said with a devoted look his way.
So, that was how the wind blew. Beth must have realized it as well, for her gaze veered from Scout to the lady beside him. Hart struggled to see the two of them as a couple. For all her beauty and sophistication, Mrs. Jamison had to be at least six years Scout’s senior, with experience not only in matrimony but also in business. There had to be more seasoned men who would be glad to court her.
Scout shrugged, pink tingeing his cheeks. “I thought the view would be best from up front. But it was hard to see anyone except the players.” He grinned at Beth. “Who would have thought, eh, Beth? Us, at a Shakespearean play.”
Beth giggled. “At least it wasn’t A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Remember when Rina made you read Puck?”
Hart wasn’t sure what a puck was or why Scout would want to read it, but her friend laughed. “I could barely recognize the words in my head, let alone sound them out.”
Mrs. Jamison shivered, a delicate movement that set the bobs at her ears to swaying.
“Oh, forgive me,” Scout said. “You’re probably cold. I should get you home.”
She favored him with a smile. “Nonsense. It’s a lovely night for a drive.”
Hart could see it coming. As soon as Scout left, Beth would either lecture Hart on the ungentlemanly behavior of keeping ladies out in the cold or demand that he go shopping for a buggy. To his surprise, she moved closer to the carriage and set a gloved hand on the yellow-lacquered side, her face glowing in the light from the lantern affixed to the front of the buggy.
“Say, Scout, would you mind terribly giving me and Deputy McCormick a ride back to the Howards’ after you drop off Mrs. Jamison? I wore fancy shoes, and my feet are protesting.”
Funny. She had laughed off Hart’s concerns about walking earlier.
“Not at all,” Scout assured her. “Do you need help climbing up or...”
“I’ll help her,” Hart said. He bent closer to Beth and murmured, “What are you doing?”
“Assisting a friend in courting,” she murmured back, but she accepted his hand to step up into the rear seat.
Why did she think Scout needed help? Against all odds, he was escorting one of the prettiest ladies in Seattle. And if Beth thought he’d be too shy, giving him an audience wasn’t likely to increase his courage.
Puzzled, Hart climbed up beside her, and Scout set off. By the stiff way Mrs. Jamison held her head, she was not amused to find herself with two chaperones.
“Yes, I quite enjoyed that,” Beth was telling no one in particular as Scout maneuvered the vehicle through the dispersing crowd. “Though I’m sure it was quite plebian compared to some performances you must have attended in San Francisco, Mrs. Jamison.”
The seamstress bestirred herself, turning just enough in the seat so that she was facing Scout. “The plays there were marvelous. I imagine those in New York and London would be even more so. How I long to visit someday.”
“You should go,” Scout told her. “A lady like you would be welcome everywhere.”
Her smile thanked him. “But I’d be alone. And I find entertainments so much more enjoyable in congenial company.”
Scout ducked his head as if honored by the statement.
“What a shame your brother couldn’t join you,” Beth said.
“Oh, forgive me, Evangeline!” Scout said with a troubled glance her way. “I should have asked about Bobby.”
Once more Beth stiffened, and Hart thought he knew why. It generally took a bit before a lady allowed a gentleman to use her first name. Mrs. Jamison and Scout had only met last Sunday. It seemed Scout didn’t need much help courting after all, if he’d so endeared himself to the lady in such a short time.
Mrs. Jamison laid a hand on Scout’s arm. “Not at all, my dear Thomas. Bobby wouldn’t have been able to join us. He had schoolwork. His studies are very important to him.”
Now, how could that be? Spring term didn’t start until after Easter. If she’d managed to enroll her brother early, Bobby surely would have known Aiden and Gillian before the picnic on Sunday. They attended the North School.
“Maybe next time,” Scout said.
“And next time consider a chaperone as well,” Beth told him. “You w
ouldn’t want to jeopardize Mrs. Jamison’s reputation.”
That set up more apologies from Scout and assurances from the widow. By the time they quieted down, Mrs. Jamison had convinced him to take Beth and Hart to the Howards’ first. Beth slumped back in her seat.
But only for a moment.
“And how is your latest creation coming along?” she asked the seamstress. Before the widow could answer, Beth reached out to tap Scout’s shoulder. “Mrs. Jamison’s designs are published in Godey’s. Did you know that, Scout?”
Scout glanced at his companion. “No indeed. Impressive. Beth’s been a devotee for years.”
“The Ladies’ Monthly Magazine from London is more respectable,” Mrs. Jamison said. “But one does what one can in the wilderness.”
Beth drew in such a deep breath, shoulders rising, that Hart had the odd notion that she was set to explode. Time to change the subject.
“Have you had any trouble since arriving?” he asked Mrs. Jamison, who was fluttering her lashes so vigorously Hart wondered whether Scout felt the breeze.
“Trouble?” Her voice sounded higher than usual. “Why, whatever do you mean, Deputy?”
Scout’s voice was harder. “Deputy McCormick looks for trouble. That’s his job.”
Beth roused herself. “And he’s very good at it. Why, right now he’s on the trail of a vicious gang that robs newcomers.”
Hart clamped his mouth shut. While he had made no secret of pursuing the case, announcing the fact to all and sundry didn’t seem like such a good idea. Seattle was still a small town, and gossip spread.
Mrs. Jamison pressed a beringed hand to her cheek. “How awful! Oh, at times like this I fear that a mere woman and child could scarcely survive in this world.”
She could have gone onstage with Fanny Morgan Phelps. Hart half expected her to swoon against Scout’s shoulder. Beth’s humph beside him told him she also recognized a performance when she saw one.
“Now, then,” Scout said, edging closer to Mrs. Jamison on the bench. “You aren’t alone. You have any number of friends in Seattle.”
