Willow Springs

by Jan Watson

  It seemed a silly idea to him. They had a perfectly good dining table, and Searcy had left it set for supper. But on this night of all nights, he could deny her nothing. If she asked to dine on the rooftop, he would fetch the ladder.

  Supper over, dishes washed, kitchen tidied . . . nothing left but to retire.

  “I’ll wind the clocks, sweetheart, and join you shortly,” Simon said as Laura Grace started up the stairs.

  “Don’t dawdle. I haven’t slept alone since Daniel and Willy were born.”

  Simon appraised his surroundings while he waited for his bride. The bedroom was beautifully appointed. The deep rose of the bedspread matched the color of the cabbage roses in the paper that adorned the walls. Burgundy damask drapes at each of the two floor-to-ceiling windows were drawn over lace curtains against the darkness of the night. The furniture was solid cherry, burnished to a glow from years of polishing. He’d cut an armful of roses and put the vase on Laura Grace’s dresser. Their sweet perfume filled the air. He had not lit the gas lamps in favor of the softer, more romantic glow cast by candles in silver candlesticks strategically placed about the room. This night would be perfect—perfect for his perfect bride.

  The bathroom door slowly opened, and he caught his breath.

  Laura Grace was dressed for bed in white silk. She stayed at the door and gripped the knob. “Simon,” she said softly, “I swan I’m not the least bit sleepy. Couldn’t we go down to the kitchen and make some fudge or pop some corn?”

  “Laura Grace—” Simon held out his hands to her—“let me look at you.”

  She came to stand before him. “This is a pretty gown, isn’t it? Mam and I sewed all winter. And my underclothes! Why, you wouldn’t believe how many pairs of pantalets I have, all lacy and such,” she babbled. “I don’t know why Mam was in such a dither about my night things.” With a shaky hand, she fingered the pink ribbon threaded through eyelet lace that decorated her robe. “She made me redo this a thousand times. Everything had to be just so.”

  “You are so beautiful. My own sweet wife.” His voice caught. “Let me.” He unbraided the plait that captured her hair. Loose, it tumbled past her shoulders to the small of her back, fiery red in the candlelight. He sank his hands deep within her tresses. “You must always wear your hair down for bed.”

  “It gets so wild and tangled. I’ll never get it right in the morning.” Her voice shook a little.

  With one hand he tilted her chin and kissed her trembling lips. “Don’t be afraid, my darling,” he murmured, caressing her shoulders.

  “Simon! Whatever are you doing?” She pushed his hands away as a deep blush covered her cheeks.

  He cupped her chin and captured her eyes with his own. “Laura Grace, did your mother talk to you? Did she tell you about husbands and wives and wedding nights?”

  “Well, of course,” she replied. “Mam said you would want to sleep with me and that I should obey you, and that is perfectly fine with me. I’m sure you will make a better bed partner than Willy and Daniel, what with all their squirming.”

  She put the palm of her hand to his forehead. “You look a little feverish. Should I make you some tea?” Cinching the belt of her robe tightly, she turned away.

  Sighing deeply, reluctantly, Simon followed her down the stairs and to the dark kitchen.

  “Help me, Simon. I don’t know where anything is. Should we use these cups and saucers? They seem too good for just a cup of tea.” She chatted away as she stoked the cookstove, filled the heavy kettle, and arranged china and pieces of cake on a tray.

  Simon stood in the doorway and watched her. How had he managed to capture such an enchanting creature?

  “This must be hard for you,” he said while pulling out a chair for her at the kitchen table. “You must be feeling homesick.”

  “It just feels really strange,” Laura Grace sighed and took her seat. “I keep expecting Willy or Daniel to burst through the door. And I get lost in this house.” She looked around. “Why, this kitchen is twice as big as any kitchen needs to be.” After blowing on her tea, she took a sip. “There is so much furniture; how will I keep it all dusted?”

  “You don’t have to learn everything at once.” His hand covered hers. “Alice will be glad to help you. She has had the responsibility of this house as well as her own for far too long. She never trusted me to keep everything together.” He chuckled. “I’m sure she is relieved to have you take over.”

  “I’m starting to feel a little sleepy now,” Laura Grace said, hiding a yawn behind her hand. “Aren’t you going to finish your cake?”

  Sitting here in his kitchen, watching his bride lick chocolate icing from her fork, Simon felt complete. He would just have to be patient with Laura Grace. At seventeen, she was still young, and he was an educated, well-traveled man of twenty-seven. Her parents had carefully raised her and had sheltered her from the ways of the world. For this he was grateful. His desire for her was like a living thing, the need nearly overwhelming, but he would never force her. He determined to take his time, moving slowly to awaken the woman in her, waiting until she desired him as he desired her.

  They stood together at the kitchen sink, washing their few dishes. She laughed when water gushed over her hands. When they finished, Simon led her up the stairs. They snuggled spoon fashion in the big, comfortable bed he would share with her for all their nights to come.

  With a big yawn, Laura Grace wiggled her way even closer to her husband. “Ummm, this feels good. I could get used to sleeping with you, Simon.”

  “One can only hope, sweetheart,” he replied. “One can only hope.”

  The day of the dinner party with Alice and Benton Upchurch finally arrived. Wednesday afternoon Copper sat at her dressing table in her petticoat, and Searcy dressed her hair. The evening gown she’d brought with her from Troublesome Creek was pressed and laid out on the bed. Copper thought it beautiful, though it had been tedious to sew. The fine-washed China silk puckered and pulled with the slightest provocation and had tested her patience endlessly. She would have thrown it into the front yard on numerous occasions had it not been for Mam’s steady hand.

  “I hate this,” she’d told Mam. “I despise sewing.”

  Mam had countered, “When you get to the city you can hire a dressmaker, but for now mind your stitches.”

  Now she was glad Mam had been so particular about finding the latest pattern and the very best material and trim.

  Copper undressed to her chemise; then Searcy proceeded to torture her with the whalebone corset Mam had sent to go with her dress.

  “Hold your breath, Miz Corbett.” Searcy pulled on the laces with all her might.

  Copper sailed backward, arms windmilling, nearly knocking Searcy down. “I can’t breathe,” she gasped. “Searcy, unloose this thing.”

  “Miz Corbett, you cain’t be going to no party at Miz Alice’s without a proper corset. Now you stand still.”

  Copper obeyed and watched in the mirror as her waist nipped in and her lungs collapsed. She didn’t complain because she couldn’t. She was swooning, seeing stars.

  “Do like this,” Searcy instructed. She minced about the room on tiptoe, batting her eyes, her old house shoes flapping, for all the world the grandest of ladies.

  Copper collapsed on the bed, flat on her back, laughter choking her, tears streaming down her face. “Searcy, have mercy.”

  Unimpressed, Searcy hauled her up. “You gots to learn, child.”

  Copper spent the rest of the afternoon learning to breathe. The corset smothered her and made it impossible to bend at the waist. She meandered around the house touching and admiring things.

  The parlor was off the entrance hall to the right. It had a pink marble fireplace with a wooden mantel and surround painted glossy white. The fireplace was closed off for the summer with a brass, fan-shaped fire screen. A wrought iron plant stand, holding a lush green fern, sat in front of the screen. A gilt-framed mirror dominated the wall above the mantel and reflec
ted two glass vases filled with blue hydrangeas. A settee and matching chair upholstered in a paisley print of burgundy, pink, and cream sat angled by the windows, and two cream-colored horsehair chairs were positioned just right for conversation.

  Copper perched on the edge of one. She felt like she might pop. The mantel clock chimed five. Where was Simon? The party was at seven, and he’d promised to be home early. Anxious, she wandered out to the kitchen. She opened the screen door for a breath of fresh air, even if it wouldn’t get past her throat.

  Copper was kneeling in the garden, smacking a cat on the head, when she heard someone call her name.

  “Miz Corbett? Hey! I’m Andy Tolliver.”

  Startled, she looked around. “Well, hello, Andy. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Doc sent me to tell you he was tied up and would be home later. Said for you to go on and dress. Old lady Wilson keeps swooning, and he can’t rightly go off and leave her ’til she gets some gumption. Miz Corbett, what’re you doing with that there cat?”

  “I’m trying to get this old mouser to let go of this chipmunk. He wants to have the poor thing for supper.”

  The cat set to growling low in his throat and took a mean swipe at Copper’s arm. Blood beaded up from two lengthy scratches.

  Andy pulled the mangy cat’s tail. “Here now, you old tom, let that varmint go.”

  Old Tom, if that was indeed his name, gave up his prize and let the hapless chipmunk fall, limp and still, to the garden path. He stalked away, stiff tail twitching, meowing his protest.

  Andy held the tiny body in one grimy hand and pushed unruly brown hair out of his eyes with the other. “Been better for this feller if Tom’d finished.”

  Copper looked up at the slender lad, not much older than Willy and Daniel. “You’re probably right, but I just couldn’t stand to watch him bat it around.” She held up her hand, and Andy helped her to her feet. “Thanks. I’d never have gotten up by myself. Let’s take him to the kitchen and see how bad he’s hurt.”

  Copper found a small box, lined it with an old rag, and laid the trembling animal inside. Andy slid the box under the pie safe as she directed. The little thing could recover or die in peace.

  Standing at the sink, Copper scrubbed her arms. She patted the cat scratches with a clean tea towel while looking over her shoulder at Andy. “You must be hungry from running over here. Wash up and I’ll fix you something to eat.”

  Andy sat at the table in tattered overalls a size too small and wolfed down cookies and slurped his milk. His hands were only a little less dirty than they had been before he washed. He looked at Copper with a direct, honest gaze. “Ever’body’s talking about you and wondering what Doc’s brung home. I say he done a good job even if he did have to go more’n a hundred miles.” Another cookie disappeared. “Are you a hillbilly? I reckon not ’cause you got shoes on, but I’m barefoot myself, so’s you can’t rightly tell by that.”

  “You may call me a hillbilly if you like,” Copper said, hiding a smile.

  “I ain’t so sure that’d be proper, Miz Corbett, but I’d like to see your corncob pipe next time I come.”

  “Andy, if I ever decide to smoke a pipe, you will be the first to know. Now you hurry on home. I’m sure your mother will have supper waiting.”

  “Nah, she don’t cook much. I mostly rustle up something for my sisters.” Andy stuffed cookies from the platter into his pants pockets. “I’ll be stopping by now and then to see if you need any help with Old Tom or anything.”

  “Would you take a saucer of milk out to the garden for Tom before you go, please? While you’re out there, pick whatever you like to take home with you.”

  “Thanks, Miz Corbett. See you later.” The screen door slammed behind him.

  Copper chuckled, wondering where she could find a corncob pipe to smoke at Alice’s dinner party.

  Copper waited in the parlor while Simon changed into evening dress. She studied her reflection in the mirror. The bodice of her deep green gown, with its frill of mint-colored crepe de chine, revealed her shoulders. She turned her back to the mirror and looked over her shoulder. Her five-gored skirt, with its Spanish flounce, hung just right over the wire bustle Searcy had tied to her waist. Under all, besides the pantalets, corset, bustle, and petticoats, she wore fine silk hose and low-cut pumps made of kid, dyed to match her dress.

  Leaning forward, she studied her hair, swept into a chignon and held in place by mother-of-pearl combs. She wore the emerald choker that had belonged to her grandmother—a gift from Mam. The cat scratches stung like fire under her opera-length glove.

  “Oh, my dear,” she sighed as Simon entered the room, freshly shaved, black hair brilliantined, mustache waxed. “You are so handsome.” He was dressed in white tie and tails. He’d had his tailor make the new style, shorter frock coat with satin lapels. His cummerbund matched the silk roses in her hair. She touched the V of her gown. “How did you know?”

  “Your mother and I were in collusion. She sent me swatches. You can’t know how much I want this evening to be just right for you.”

  He turned her to face the mirror, then circled her waist with his arms and tucked his chin into the curve of her shoulder. Reaching inside his coat pocket, he withdrew a square, satin-covered box. He snapped open the lid and pulled out an emerald bracelet.

  “Oh, Simon,” Copper said breathlessly as she held out her right arm.

  He fastened the bracelet to her wrist, turned her hand, and kissed her gloved palm.

  The clock struck seven.

  Copper’s eyes widened. Her hand flew to her mouth. “We’re late! What will your sister think?”

  Their carriage turned from the street onto a curved, tree-lined lane that led to a house so big Copper thought it must be a mansion. Light sparkled from every window, and the massive front door was held open by an impeccably dressed, dark-skinned man who took her wrap and Simon’s hat.

  “Thank you, Joseph,” Simon said. “I expect we’re a little late—fashionably so, I hope.”

  The gentle pressure from Simon’s hand at the small of her back ushered Copper into the music room. Several couples surrounded a grand piano, where a rather plump, plain-looking young woman dressed in yellow taffeta held court. Her fingers flew effortlessly over the keys, and Copper recognized the strains of Chopin.

  A tall, elegantly dressed woman broke away from the laughing group and kissed Simon’s cheek. Alice was thin, Copper noticed, and beautiful. She had the same black hair as her brother and arched brows over brown eyes as sharp as twopenny nails. When she leaned toward Copper with pursed lips, her face soured, and the hand that brushed Copper’s was cold even through their gloves.

  “Late as usual, Simon,” she said in a low, aggrieved tone. “Not the best introduction for your bride, but . . . nonetheless. Everyone! Look who has arrived: Simon and the new Mrs. Corbett!”

  People swirled around Copper as she was introduced. Mr. This and Mrs. That and everyone so important sounding. How would she ever remember their names?

  The last people she met were the pianist and her mother. When the pianist arose from the piano bench, her gown was creased and stood as stiff as cardboard around her. Mam always said taffeta was an unforgiving fabric, and now Copper saw why. The pianist looked like a yellow tent, but her smile was genuine and dimpled her round cheeks.

  “I’m Hester Lauderback, and this is my mother, Margaret. So pleased to meet you, Laura Grace,” she gushed. “Let me show you Alice and Benton’s lovely home before we dine.” She took Copper’s arm. “You don’t mind, do you, Alice?” Her eyes shone with mischief. “Let’s go switch place cards,” she whispered as she pulled Copper away from Alice and her guests. “Then we can sit together.”

  Nothing had prepared Copper for the opulence of the place. Each room dripped with rich fabric, glittering chandeliers, huge mirrors, and impressive works of art. Patterned carpets in deep colors of burgundy, gold, and navy graced the floors. The walls were decorously papered—no cabbage r
oses here—or had murals depicting hunting scenes.

  On the upstairs landing, Copper and Hester paused before a magnificent rosewood étagère. It stood at least ten feet high with shelves displaying figurines on either side of its mirrored center, which reflected the two women, Hester with a slight smile, Copper with her mouth agape.

  “Parian,” Hester said.

  “Pardon me?”

  “The statuary . . . Parian. Benton has an extensive collection. You’ll see it throughout the house.”

  “Oh.” Copper touched one of the smooth white sculptures with the tip of her finger. “How could you keep your mind on your dusting with all these little naked people standing about?”

  Hester laughed, her voice a delightful light and airy tinkle. “Laura Grace Corbett, I like you.” With a squeeze to Copper’s hand, she said, “We’d better get back before Alice comes looking.”

  They made it just in time to hear Joseph announce, “Dinner is served.”

  Benton Upchurch gave his arm to Copper and escorted her to the lavish table where she was to sit at his right hand. Hester ensconced herself at Copper’s side as the other guests took their assigned seats. Alice, escorted by Simon, brought up the rear.

  As she faced the formal dining table, Copper sent a silent thank-you Mam’s way for all the nights of table etiquette. Her dinner card, beautifully scripted with her title, Mrs. Simon Alexander Corbett, rested conspicuously on a white folded napkin. She recognized all the dining instruments: the large-bladed cutting knife; the butter knife; the soup and dessert spoons; the dinner, salad, fish, and oyster forks, but what of the little knife and fork placed on an angle across her plate? Her stomach felt queasy. The gloves she wore made a scratchy sound when she rubbed her finger with her thumb. Was everyone watching?

  An elbow nudged her arm. Hester drew off her gloves, one finger at a time, laid them across her lap, then sliced a bit of the toast points on her plate with her little knife and fork.