Buttons and Bows

by Amelia C. Adams

  Kitty dusted the flour off her hands, then sat down across from her mother. “At least we have a short respite during their naps.” It was true that taking care of the twins was exhausting, but Kitty didn’t mind overly much. If it helped lift a burden from her mother, who looked as wrung out as one of the sheets on the clothesline, Kitty was glad to be of use.

  She didn’t, however, know if this was the sort of life she wanted for herself.

  Her father was out of town quite a lot, traveling for business as an investment banker. Her brother, Geordie, was away at college, so he wasn’t any good whatsoever except for sending letters home to explain why his classes were failing to hold his attention and why he’d missed so many of them. Kitty was certain her mother hadn’t anticipated any of this when she married, and while she hadn’t expressed disappointment, Kitty knew she must feel it. What young woman stands at the head of the church on her wedding day and eagerly anticipates a life of diapers, loneliness, and sleepless nights?

  On the other hand . . .

  Kirsten and Caroline had brought a sweetness into the home that couldn’t be denied. Even though they were little scamps at eighteen months old, they were clever and funny, and if one or the other fell asleep in Kitty’s arms, she couldn’t help but hold them a little while longer than absolutely necessary and appreciate the heavenly glow that surrounded them in their innocence. She knew she’d feel this same way about her own children, but even more keenly because she would be their mother and not their sister. Motherhood wasn’t entirely diapers and sleepless nights—it was also cuddles and giggles and blowing dandelion seeds from their stems and watching them float away on the wind.

  She pushed back her chair, her thoughts becoming too convoluted to deal with at the moment. “If you don’t mind, I’ll walk over to the Sewing Shoppe and see if Mrs. Henderson has received my buttons yet,” she said. “Do you need anything while I’m out?”

  “Yes, please. Would you stop in and ask Mr. Appleby to set aside a carton of tinned peaches? Geordie does adore them so, and remember, he’ll be home for a visit this weekend.”

  “A whole carton? I know Geordie eats a lot, but that seems excessive.”

  Evangeline smiled. “I know. I just miss my boy and want to welcome him with something I know he’ll enjoy.”

  “All right. I’ll be back as quickly as I can.”

  As Kitty tied her bonnet strings under her chin, she found it difficult not to seethe. Her brother was infuriating—simply infuriating. He was wasting his opportunity for a good education by sleeping through his classes and forgetting to do his assignments, and now he was to receive a carton of tinned peaches when he returned home, as though he was an invalid who had to be fed on dainty food? She tugged her bow a bit too tight and had to start over again. Who did he think he was—the king of this castle?

  Except . . .that’s what he thought because it was largely true. With their father gone for such lengths, Geordie was the master of the house at times, and he didn’t handle that responsibility any better than he did his education. If he didn’t begin to take things more seriously, he’d find that he’d wasted every opportunity that came his way, and not just college.

  She stepped outside, pulled the door closed behind her, and took a deep breath. Gracious, she’d been having melancholy thoughts—this was entirely unlike her. She was used to seeing the bright side of every situation, and yet she’d been barreling full tilt toward a state of gloom and doom. She’d better do something about it immediately before she became one of those dull spinster women who only knew how to look dour and make lace for their poky little bonnets.

  She picked up her skirts and began to run. The lane that led from the Clark cottage to the street was long, and she could take some exercise and work out her grayness in relative privacy, calming herself before she reached the intersection. She could put on the appearance of being a lady while in public as long as she had a moment to shake out her wiggles and get them under control.

  By the time she reached the road, she was feeling quite herself again, and she smoothed down the front of her dress so no one would be able to guess at her little secret.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Clark!”

  She closed her eyes momentarily at the familiar voice, collecting herself before she turned and smiled. “Mr. Frost! Good afternoon to you too.”

  He took off his hat and gave a low, sweeping bow. “I haven’t seen you since the party at the Channings’. How have you been?”

  “Quite busy helping Mother with the twins, but I’ve been in excellent health. How is your mother?”

  “Same as always—feisty and fickle.” He paused. “I hope . . . I hope there are no hard feelings about our manner of parting ways, Miss Clark.”

  “Of course not, but it’s good of you to inquire.” Truthfully, if anyone had a reason for hard feelings, it would be him—she was the one to reject his proposal, not the other way around.

  “I’m glad. You see, I’ve just become engaged, and I wouldn’t want there to be any awkwardness between us.”

  “You’re engaged? That’s wonderful news. I couldn’t be happier. Miss Stevens, I’m guessing?”

  He smiled broadly. “That’s right. We’ve been quite inseparable for the last month, and I confess, I’ve never been so carried away. We plan to wed in the autumn.”

  “I’m truly pleased for you, Mr. Frost. She’ll be a lovely bride, and I know you’ll make her a splendid husband.”

  He gave another bow, but this one was not quite so grand. “Thank you. I do hope you’ll excuse me—Mother sent me on an errand, and she’s waiting. It’s good to see you.”

  “And you. Please give both your mother and Miss Stevens my best.”

  Kitty watched as he scurried off, allowing him enough distance that it wouldn’t look as though they were walking together. Then she continued on her way, thinking about that night at the Channings’. She’d only known Mr. Frost a short time, and while she’d enjoyed spending time with him, he wasn’t her idea of what a beau should be—let alone a husband—and his proposal had taken her by surprise. She’d stammered out a refusal that could have been phrased better if she’d had more time to think about it, and then she’d fled. She’d never been more mortified, and it had taken her days to want to leave the house after that.

  But now he was engaged to someone else, and she meant it when she said she was happy for him. She’d had no regrets about refusing him, only about her inexperience in handling it.

  When she reached the Sewing Shoppe, she found Mrs. Henderson behind the counter sorting through a stack of packaged needles.

  “Oh, Kitty! I’m so glad to see you,” Mrs. Henderson said before Kitty had even closed the door behind her. “Your buttons are here—they just arrived on this afternoon’s train.”

  “I’m so glad. I should have thought to order them before, but I’m not that organized.” Kitty waited while Mrs. Henderson reached beneath the counter and fetched her order. “Oh, yes—those are perfect.”

  “Good. I was worried that they might not be the right shade of lavender.”

  “I’d say they’re a perfect match.” Kitty pulled a few coins from her reticule. “Thank you so much.”

  “Kitty, a moment before you go.”

  She paused. “Yes, Mrs. Henderson?”

  The older woman rested her hand on the counter and looked at Kitty curiously. “I had an interesting conversation with your grandmother this morning. She seems to think you don’t ever want to get married.”

  Kitty laughed. “I did say something like that last night—it’s been a trying week.”

  Mrs. Henderson seemed to choose her next words carefully. “And how are you feeling today? Has your mind changed at all?”

  Kitty raised an eyebrow. “Have you been speaking with Mr. Frost? Did you hear the news that he’s engaged, and now you’re wondering if I’m in the slough of despond over it?”

  Mrs. Henderson shook her head, looking confused. “No, I haven’t been s
peaking with him, but good for him. I’m sure he’ll be very happy. Now, why should you be despondent?”

  “No reason at all. That’s why I wasn’t sure if you were asking me about it.”

  Mrs. Henderson blinked. “Well, all right then. What I wanted to know . . . Well, it’s impertinent of me to ask, and I realize that, but I was curious . . . Do you want to marry someday?”

  What a very odd conversation this was. “I suppose I do, when I’m not tired out from helping Mother. It’s much easier to think about when one is dancing with a handsome young man and not wringing out diapers or wiping up noses.”

  Mrs. Henderson laughed. “Yes, dancing is definitely more romantic. So … you’re not entirely opposed to the idea?”

  Kitty raised both eyebrows this time. “No, I’m not entirely opposed . . . Why are you so curious, Mrs. Henderson?”

  “I . . . Well, I . . .” She looked flustered. “I was just thinking what a beautiful bride you’d be, and I was hoping that I’d get to see that someday, and . . .”

  And what a very odd reply to her question. Kitty didn’t suppose she’d get a straight answer if she asked again, and she also supposed that it really wasn’t very important. “Well, if you discover any young men in town who wouldn’t bore me utterly to tears, do let me know. We seem to be having a drought of anyone who’s not an utter stick in the mud.”

  “I will,” Mrs. Henderson replied, brightening considerably. “I most definitely will.”

  Kitty gathered up her buttons, bid Mrs. Henderson goodbye, and left the shop, wondering what on earth her marital status had to do with anything. She knew Mrs. Henderson had been lonely since her husband had passed away—she was likely trying to fill time by getting to know people in town a little better. Whatever the reason for that strange chat, it really didn’t matter, and Kitty had an errand to run at the general store. Heaven forbid Geordie should miss out on his tinned peaches.

  Justin Sorenson swallowed a few times before knocking on the front door of Orinda Lou Britt Perry’s unassuming home. He couldn’t believe that he was actually about to meet such an incredibly talented singer, one who had graced stages for years before having to retire. He supposed this was somewhat akin to an aspiring artist meeting da Vinci, but he’d heard that Mrs. Perry was a modest lady, so he wouldn’t embarrass her by saying that aloud.

  Once he knocked, he waited with his heart beating rapidly. What if she couldn’t help him? That was his biggest fear in all the world. If he couldn’t sing again, it would devastate him. Music was his one true love, the only thing he’d wanted to do with his life from the time he was a small boy. He’d tried to come up with an alternate plan, another dream, something else that would fulfill him, but there was nothing. If he couldn’t have music, he didn’t know what joy he could ever find in life.

  When the door opened, he saw a lovely middle-aged woman standing before him dressed in a simple plum-colored gown with a small brooch at her throat. His first reaction was to greet her as he would the housekeeper, but there was something in the way she held herself that told him she was no servant.

  “Mrs. Perry?” he asked cautiously.

  “You must be Mr. Sorenson,” she replied softly, holding out her hand. “Welcome to my home.”

  He took her outstretched fingers. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this opportunity to meet.”

  “We’ll see if you still feel that way after today. You might find me an utter tyrant.” She stepped back and motioned for him to enter.

  Her home was just as simple on the inside as it was from outward appearances. He was surprised by this—surely she had made enough during her career that she could afford something more luxurious, but he supposed that not everyone chose to spend their money in that way. Either that, or he’d been misled about the earning opportunities available in the music profession. That didn’t matter to him, though—it was still his dream even if he did end up living like a pauper.

  He came up short when he entered the parlor and saw the piano sitting there.

  “What a beautiful instrument,” he said, his breath catching in his throat.

  “It’s my pride and joy. In fact, that’s how I met my husband—he came to tune it for me, and things evolved from there.”

  “I meant to congratulate you on your marriage as soon as I arrived. I’m sorry I forgot—I confess, I’ve been rather nervous to meet you, and all thoughts were chased out of my head as soon as you opened the door.”

  Mrs. Perry looked startled. “You were nervous to meet me? Whatever for?”

  “Because . . . because you’re Miss Britt. Er, Mrs. Perry. Your talent is legendary, ma’am.”

  She waved him toward a chair. “Legendary? You make me sound so old.”

  Oh, goodness. He hadn’t intended that at all. “I’m sorry. I mean to say . . .”

  She chuckled. “I’m teasing you, Mr. Sorenson. Thank you for the praise, even if I do feel it’s a bit undeserved. Yes, I performed for many years and was well received, but I hardly think I’m legendary. And certainly not anymore.” She looked toward the window as though looking into her past, a wistful expression crossing her face.

  “About that, ma’am . . . If you don’t mind my asking . . .”

  “Not at all. You’re kin to me, you know, being a singer—I shall tell you all my secrets.” She gave him a warm smile. “I sang so much that my vocal chords became irritated. Instead of listening to wise counsel and taking some time off, I pushed through until I was forced to quit. My stubbornness nearly cost me the ability to speak, let alone sing, and now I only perform once or twice a year for charity. Those are somewhat pitiful performances, as I’m sure you can imagine. I’ll never again sing like I once did.”

  “I’m sorry,” Justin told her sincerely. “I can’t imagine.”

  “Hopefully, you never will be able to imagine it. Now, tell me your story. You mentioned laryngitis in your letter.”

  “Yes. Last winter, I came down with a horrible case of laryngitis and pneumonia both. My lungs and my throat were raw and inflamed for weeks on end, and it’s only been five months since I recovered. Perhaps I’m not giving myself enough time—perhaps I’m being far too impatient—but I’m afraid that I might have lost my ability to sing. I still produce sound, but it’s not as clear and true as it once was.”

  Mrs. Perry gave a nod. “Well, let’s have a listen and see what we think.” She stood and crossed to the piano, sliding onto the bench before looking up at him. “What would you like to sing?”

  “Something simple, perhaps, like a scale?”

  She pursed her lips. “We can start with a scale, but then we’ll move into something a little more adventurous. If you want my help, I need all the information you can give me, and that information will be provided by your voice.”

  He nodded. “I understand.”

  As she flexed her fingers over the keys, he stood next to the piano and swallowed a couple more times. This performance was small—the smallest audience he’d ever had—but it was the most important of his life because it would tell Mrs. Perry how to proceed. If she told him it was hopeless, he didn’t know what he’d do. His doctors back home thought he was perfectly fine and that he should count his blessings that he hadn’t died—it shouldn’t matter that his voice was gone. Of course he was grateful that he hadn’t died, but he couldn’t lose music. He just couldn’t.

  Mrs. Perry began with a simple C scale, then moved into D flat, D, and E flat. As he knew it would be, Justin’s voice was hollow, not at all robust, and he wished he could explain how very different he used to sound. How he used to inspire awe from his audiences, how they would applaud until the crystal vibrated. But he couldn’t do that without sounding prideful, and he couldn’t do that without something to give credence to his words. It was how he sang now that was important, not shadows of the past—it was the possibilities for the future that mattered, not what used to be.

  Mrs. Perry didn’t comment as he warmed up. Instead, she fini
shed the last scale with a flourish, then played a small interlude before beginning “La Donna E Mobile” from Verdi’s Rigoletto. She was certainly testing him—he wasn’t sure he was up for this particular challenge. But he wasn’t going to shrink from this fight—he was here to see what he could do, and if that wasn’t pushed to its limit, he would never know.

  He began quietly, searching within himself for strength, calling it forth from the depths of his chest and his lungs and his soul. He winced as a few notes fell short. Then he added more power and vibrato, increasing his volume in small increments until the end. He closed with a gasp, his hand on his chest.

  Mrs. Perry looked up at him. “How was that?”

  “Honestly? Terrifying. Exhausting. Exhilarating.”

  She smiled. “I saw every bit of that. You began the song like a young girl sneaking into a room she’s forbidden to enter—you were timid, cautious, experimenting. By the end, though, you had taken full ownership.”

  Justin nodded. He knew he’d been too cautious—he should have jumped in with both feet. His hesitancy had likely cost him.

  “It’s good that you went into it slowly, though,” Mrs. Perry was saying.

  He blinked. “It is?”

  “Yes. You should never step onto a frozen pond without testing it out first.” She stood up and resumed her seat on the chair across the room, motioning for him to be seated as well. “What does your doctor say about your recovery?”

  Justin chuckled wryly. “He says everything is normal for someone as ill as I was.”

  “That’s not very helpful or very informative.”

  “I agree.”

  She tapped her lips with one finger. “I’d like you to be seen by my doctor. He’ll be able to give us a better idea of the actual physical condition of your throat. As to your voice . . .”

  Justin tensed. He was used to being criticized by self-proclaimed experts, newspaper columnists, and even music professors, but none whom he respected as much as Mrs. Perry.