When he could catch his breath, Will went on. “And her aunt got a spiritual message from some Raja named Kinjiput on her crystal ball right before I arrived there this evening, too.”
Thomas was dumbfounded for a minute before he, too, began to smile.
“Who in God’s name are the Crown Prince and Archduke Rudolf and Raja Kinji-whatever you said?”
Will could barely talk through his strangling laughter. “The—the Austrian crown prince who shot himself and his mistress and I don’t know who the raja was.”
“Are you trying to tell me Aunt Emily’s relatives are not playing with a full deck?”
“A full deck?” Will whooped. “They’re each short an ace, king, queen, and jack—at least—if what I saw tonight is any indication.”
Thomas stopped laughing before Will did. “You know, Will, maybe we shouldn’t be too hard on Aunt Emily if that’s what she’s up against every day. Especially if Pickering is lurking in the background waiting to snap up the remains.”
Thomas’s words sobered Will up right quick. He remembered Pickering’s unsavory leer every time he looked at Emily, and the recollection turned his good humor sour.
“Yes,” he said. “And he wants to snap her up, too.”
“You think so?” Thomas closed the Sherlock Holmes book he’d been reading, apparently finding real life more intriguing at the moment than the realm of detective fiction. “Well, and just what do you aim to do about that, my friend?”
Will stretched his long legs out in front of him, and folded his hands behind his head. “I don’t know yet, Thomas. But I aim to do something.”
“You don’t like the idea of Pickering swindling the fair Emily’s relatives?”
“I don’t like the idea of Pickering coming within fifty miles of Emily.”
Thomas didn’t say anything but opened his book to the page he had kept marked with his index finger. Before he sank back in his chair and hied himself once again to the misty English countryside, he remarked mildly, “I think you’ve been smitten, Will Tate.”
Will glanced up to find Thomas’s nose buried behind his book. He didn’t respond but wondered if his friend was right. “Texas Lonesome” aside, he didn’t aim to let Emily be hurt by Clarence Pickering or anybody else on this earth if he could help it.
Before he left the Schindler home that night, Will had had the presence of mind to make Emily promise to meet him in the park the next day for more lessons in good manners. Now, as he pondered little Miss Emily and life in general while he stared into Thomas Crandall’s companionable fireplace, he looked forward to their meeting in the park with intrigue liberally laced with confusion.
With a defeated sigh, he gave up trying to reason with himself and decided to pay a call on Ludwig von Plotz before he kept his appointment with Emily in the park.
# # #
Emily stared at her reflection in her scratched vanity mirror for a long time before she crawled between the old patched quilts covering her bed. The warped mirror showed many gray splotches which clearly indicated it needed to be resilvered. It was probably a hundred years old, Emily thought, a relic from her Aunt Gertrude’s days as a wealthy young bride in Germany. It had belonged to Gertrude’s husband’s family.
“I don’t know what to do,” Emily whispered to her wavery reflection.
She was surprised that the overwhelming confusion of this evening did not show in her face. She had expected herself to look ravaged, but she didn’t. Instead, as she peered pensively at her reflection, she beheld an Emily whose cheeks were flushed a delicate pink, whose clear blue eyes were bright, whose full lips appeared rosy, and who was prettier than she ever remembered being. She beheld, in short, a stranger.
And he’d almost kissed her.
A tentative finger reached up to press her lips, and her eyes slid shut when she considered it might have been Will Tate’s lips resting there. She felt at once more wonderful than she had any right to be and more wicked than she perhaps really was.
She wished he had kissed her.
Emily was at this moment so confused she wouldn’t have been surprised if a streak of lightning burst through her bedroom window to cleave her in half. She already felt torn in two.
When she set out to deceive Will Tate, she’d hoped he’d fall in love with her. But she hadn’t even considered the possibility that she might begin to care for him. But she did. Somehow, it felt even worse to deceive a man she cared about than the bumpkinish “Texas Lonesome” she had once known only through the newspaper.
Not only that, but he must have seen through her ruse tonight. There was no way to disguise the shabbiness of the furnishings in the Schindler home. And there was no way of disguising the patent craziness of her family—or the villainy of Clarence Pickering. She knew she was being uncharitable when she suddenly wished Gertrude and Ludwig could just disappear until Will Tate’s ring was firmly on her finger. They were so—so—eccentric was the kindest word Emily could think of.
That was the crux of the matter. Right there, in plain, unvarnished words, Emily had hit the nail solidly on its head. Oh, Lord. What if he didn’t care to associate with her after this evening? What on earth would she do then?
Emily was so overwrought, she would have thrown herself onto her bed to sob if her corset was not laced so tightly. She heaved a deep, morose sigh as she unbuttoned the dozens of tiny buttons holding her satin bodice together. Then she unsnapped her corset and, in spite of her roiling emotions, breathed in and released a deep, refreshing gust of contentment.
“Lord, I wonder who invented corsets,” she muttered. She loosened the lacings in the back and a tear slid down her cheek when she considered what she should wear to the park the following day.
She was no better than a trollop, she decided with exaggerated melancholy as she stared into the dim atmosphere of her bedroom. She’d deliberately laced her corset too tight to swell her bosom and make her waist smaller in an attempt to ensnare Will Tate. She wondered what he would think of her feminine endowments. A doleful sniff escaped her. It didn’t much matter, for once he discovered her unscrupulous plan after they were married, he’d surely hate her forever.
On that dismal note, Emily succumbed to her desire and flung herself on her bed to sob. The old springs creaked ominously and for a heart-stopping second she was afraid the whole bed would collapse. It wouldn’t have surprised her much. This whole evening, simply because it had been so marvelous in spots, was a disaster.
But the bed frame held, and Emily indulged herself. Finally her flood of hot tears subsided into unhappy hiccups, and she drifted off to sleep without having decided on her next day’s costume.
Her oversight created an hour’s worth of real panic the following morning. She ultimately donned an old cherry-red Spencer waist and a walking skirt of cream and red stripes, ripped the blue ribbon off her straw hat and attached a matching red one. Then she pinned the universal bonnet to her glossy locks.
She angled the hat so that it looked jaunty, and her heart clutched at the sporty vision she had created of herself. No one, she decided, would be able to tell that underneath this facade of healthy, modern young womanhood beat the broken heart of a miserable seductress.
Then she heard Clarence Pickering’s voice waft up the stairs and felt her insides tighten. What on earth was he doing here at this hour of the morning?
Deceiver or not, she had no choice. She braced herself for the sight of Clarence Pickering before she trod down the stairs and into the breakfast room. Sure enough, there he was, munching away on a muffin and chatting with her aunt.
“Good morning, Emily darling!” cried Gertrude. “Look who’s taking breakfast with us today.” Gertrude smiled at her financial advisor as though she hadn’t seen him for a year or more.
“So I see.” Emily raked Pickering with an icy glare. “Are you paying my aunt for board, Mr. Pickering? You seem to be taking all your meals with us lately.”
She saw a flicker of anger pass
over his face and smiled inside. She just loved it when her barbs found their target.
Pickering apparently decided to ignore her rude jibe today. “You look pretty as a picture this morning, Miss Emily.”
His voice was smug, and it made Emily’s insides shudder.
“Why, what an original observation, Mr. Pickering.” She tried her best to ignore him after that.
As she eyed the ham on the side board she wanted to ask her aunt why she was wasting expensive ham on a week day, but she held her tongue and took a small piece. She hesitated over the toast a moment too long and stiffened when she realized Pickering was standing at her side.
“You should try being nicer to me, Miss Emily,” he murmured into her ear. “I could make your life really, really easy, if you’d let me.”
“I would kill myself and you, too, before I would allow you to do anything at all to me, Mr. Pickering.” Emily’s furious whisper was a little bit too loud.
“What did you say, dear?” Gertrude looked up from her ham and eggs.
“Nothing, Aunt. I just stepped on Mr. Pickering’s toe and was apologizing.”
So saying, Emily executed a sharp turn and ground her heel into Pickering’s instep. He grunted in pain, and Emily smiled as she made her way to the breakfast table.
“What are you going to do with yourself today, dear?”
“Just what I usually do, Aunt. First I’m going to visit Mr. Kaplan and take him my latest column. Then I’m going to visit the park.” She decided not to mention Will Tate.
It didn’t make any difference, for Gertrude said, “That Mr. Blake was a terribly nice man, Emily dear. He seemed quite taken with you, too. Did you say he was from Texas?”
“His last name is Tate, Aunt Gertrude, and yes, he is from Texas.”
“The fellow seemed rather dumb to me,” muttered Pickering as he limped back to the table.
The fury that arose in Emily at Pickering’s words surprised her. After all, what did she care what the swindling viper thought of Will Tate? Still, she found herself snapping, “I’m astonished at your assessment, Mr. Pickering. On the other hand, I suppose you, of all people, could recognize ‘dumb.’” Emily herself deplored the use of the word to signify stupidity, but she used it now out of spite.
Pickering shot her an ironic smile. “Why, Miss Emily, you sound rather snippy this morning.”
Emily chose not to answer. She didn’t want to upset her aunt. Instead, she stared at her plate while she finished her breakfast in as little time as possible. Then she excused herself, kissed her aunt’s soft cheek, went back upstairs, gathered her column together, and set out for Mr. Kaplan’s office.
She had no idea Will Tate was walking up Hayes Street at the same time, saw her leave the house, ducked into a nearby alleyway, and waited until she was out of sight before he continued on his way to Mrs. Schindler’s front door. Once there, he tugged the bell pull and asked Blodgett if he could be taken to Mr. von Plotz.
He found Uncle Ludwig in the back yard on his hands and knees, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his black mourning band. Ludwig was tidying Helga and Gustav’s elaborate home. The two little hounds tried to help by nibbling on his nose and ears while he chuckled in appreciation.
Ludwig was delighted to see Will. The two men spent a fruitful morning together, and Will left an hour or so later very pleased with himself. That hour or so had also served to further Will’s enormous respect for Emily.
“I’ll be damned,” he murmured as he strode to Golden Gate Park. He couldn’t imagine how she’d managed to do it so far.
The sudden burst of pleasure Emily felt when she spied Will Tate sitting on the park bench startled her.
It didn’t surprise Will one little bit when he saw Emily walking toward him and felt his insides stir. He had come to expect this reaction to her. He rose, whipped his hat off, and stood, smiling broadly at her approach. Lord above. Little Miss Emily von Plotz would make a monk want to sin.
His smile was warm enough to bake bread. It burned through Emily in no time at all and she was blushing by the time she reached him.
“Good morning, Mr. Tate.”
She felt shy and fluttery today and was sure her jitters were in direct reaction to the promise of last night’s unfulfilled kiss. She wondered how she’d feel if Will really had managed to kiss her, and wished she knew. Then she felt her cheeks burn even hotter.
“Miss Emily, I swear, you get prettier every time I see you.” The heat Emily was experiencing was nothing compared to that which threatened to incinerate Will. He felt himself get hard and held his hat in front of him in an “aw-shucks” pose, grateful for once for his false persona.
“Thank you, Mr. Tate. That was very prettily said.”
“I think I’m getting better at this ‘manners’ stuff, ma’am.” He grinned and gestured her onto the park bench.
Emily smiled at him. “I believe you are indeed, Mr. Tate.”
Will had considered long and hard how he was going to maneuver Emily into spending most of the day with him. At last he had come up with what he considered to be a brilliant idea, and he used it on her now.
“M-miss Emily, ma’am?” His stutter had been practiced until it was absolute perfection. He was proud of himself.
“Yes, Mr. Tate?” With a flutter of lashes which she had rehearsed for hours for just such an occasion, Emily peered into his face. Then she nearly lost control of her studied pose when she encountered his glorious sea-green eyes. Lord above, the man was more than handsome. He was beautiful.
“Well, ma’am, I’d consider it a real kindness on your part if you was to accompany me to Nathan-Dohrmann’s Crockery Emporium in Union Square, so’s you can teach me the right way to go on in a big-city place like that.”
The truth was, Will needed to restock his dinnerware and linens back home. The selection of such goods to be found in San Francisco was ever so much more elegant than that to be had in San Antonio. He was also curious about Emily von Plotz’s taste. Not, he admitted to himself in a fit of honesty, that it much mattered any more. If she wanted purple sheets, orange pillow slips, and green curtains, he most likely wouldn’t object. The realization hit him square between the eyes and almost made him laugh.
“Why, Mr. Tate, I’d be delighted.” Emily tamped down her wry smile with difficulty. But, while it was true she had spent a good deal of time in Nathan-Dohrmann’s, her hours there were much akin to those spent poring over fashion periodicals in the public library.
The library, Nathan-Dohrmann’s, Gump’s, Magnin’s, and others like them, were where Emily did her research. After she had determined everything she needed to know about the very latest fashion trends in apparel and home decor through her studies, she would hie herself off to Chinatown and buy everything she needed to create facsimiles at a fraction of the price Nathan-Dohrmann’s or an expensive modiste would charge.
She elected to spare “Texas Lonesome” that information. There was a vast difference between genteel poverty and desperation, she told herself. She didn’t want him even to guess at how straitened her circumstances really were, or else, he would certainly cotton onto her devious scheme.
They strolled to Nathan-Dohrmann’s as companionably as life-long friends. Will very properly took her arm in his and kept to the outside of the walkways in order to protect her from mud flung up by passing carriages or random violence which might erupt on the street.
Nathan-Dohrmann’s bustled with activity. Emily, who had no idea Will knew his way around the store, led him to the linens.
“What is it you need, Mr. Tate?”
“Well, ma’am, I got me a new table in my dining room back to home, and I wanted to find a nice cloth for it. For big dinners and such. You know?”
In truth, he had built his home outside San Antonio on a massive scale, and his new dining room could seat a horde of hungry diners with ease. He had just received a wire from the manager of his estate that the mahogany table he’d ordered from New York had
arrived. He wanted to purchase not merely linens, but every-day crockery and a formal dining service, as well. But, as much as he delighted in Emily’s company, he figured he’d better try her out on the linens before he trusted her to spend perhaps thousands of his dollars on porcelain dinnerware and fine china.
He was not disappointed.
“Are you sure, Mr. Tate?” Emily asked uncertainly when he told her he had no budget limits.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, trying his best to look innocent.
“Well . . .”Emily peered around at the wares displayed before them. “And how many people does your new table seat, Mr. Tate?”
“Fifty.”
Emily gasped. “Fifty?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Will was surprised at his sudden urge to scoop her up and whirl her around, and then kiss her astonished little mouth. It was puckered up in surprise, just perfect for a kiss.
“I got me a lot of friendly neighbors,” he added with what he hoped was appropriate sheepishness.
Emily swallowed and tried to recapture her air of nonchalant authority. She couldn’t even imagine the fortune it must take to build a home equipped with a dining room suitable for entertaining fifty people at a sit-down dinner. But, she told herself with a firmness she intended to hold on to, she aimed to find out first-hand.
“Well,” she said when she could speak, “I don’t suppose you’ll need any every-day linens for such a grand room. You must have a breakfast room for your daily meals.”
“Oh, yes, ma’am. I got me a breakfast room. At least the architect called it a breakfast room,” he added confidentially, not caring to pass up an opportunity to appear unsophisticated. “Actually, I eat there all the time, ‘cause I didn’t have a table for the other room until now. My house is new, you know.”
“Oh. No, Mr. Tate, I didn’t know.” Until this minute, Emily hadn’t actually considered where Will might have made his fortune or how long he’d had it.
“Yep. I had it built special.”
It didn’t seem the right time to let Emily know about his roses. Judging from Thomas’s reaction when Will began studying rose culture, people didn’t consider gardening a manly pastime. Will figured he’d rather demonstrate to Emily exactly how manly he was before he sprung the roses on her.
Texas Lonesome Page 8
