From what Molly could see of James’ face, he was wearing the sort of expression a condemned man might wear, waiting for the noose to be fitted around his neck. But he had asked for this, hadn’t he?
“Well, I—uh—I figured you’d be bringin’ a dress with you, Emma. Somethin’ to wear right away. I planned on gettin’ married soon, not puttin’ it off till you—”
“Why, James Yancey, I can’t possibly be married soon!” Emma, distressed, clutched at the arm she had just finished caressing.
Tears welled up in her beautiful blue eyes. It was not her way to scream and shout, to hurl any nearby objects in a rage, to throw a hissy fit. No. Her way was to pout or weep prettily or, if all else failed, to melt down into a helpless puddle of sugary South Carolina goo.
“Since you deprived me of havin’ my gorgeous Southern ceremony, with all my friends and family around me, wishin’ me well and celebratin’,” she ran on, in a blubbery tone, “I hoped you’d allow me the privilege of doin’ it all here, instead. But if you won’t—”
“Emma.” He was beginning to feel a faint stirring of alarm. And showed it. Beads of moisture were dampening his forehead, even under the shade of his hat; and his dark eyes wore a miniscule ring of white, like that of a restive horse, ready to stampede. “Darlin’, that wasn’t my intent a’tall. I’m just anxious to get us settled at the Condor, and start us a nice—”
“Oh, but that won’t work!” The tears had overflowed, the slim shoulders in their fancy gold cutwork had begun to shake with tiny sobs, and a case of full-blown hysterics lay right on the horizon. “You must give me time, James. Please, I entreat you!”
Feeling the need to intercede, Molly leaned forward and spoke in her most soothing, comforting voice. “Emma, dear, calm down. We’ll see that everything works out.”
Beside her, Matthew sat hunched on his seat, man-like, as if desperate to escape whatever female emotion the prevailing winds might blow his way. Silent. Yet supportive.
“D-d-d-do you—really mean—that—?”
“Now, Emma, have you ever known me not to mean what I say?” persisted Molly, patting the girl’s upper arm. “You have all of us, and you have Matt’s family and friends. We’ll help you, believe me. And we’ll throw you a fine wedding, for whatever date you decide. Isn’t that right, James?” She ended, not with a question, but with a warning: This girl is overtired and overwrought; she is a delicate blossom; she is in need of coddling.
The man proved to be more perspicacious that she’d hoped. “Just as you say, ma’am,” he replied stiffly.
A long lingering twilight sent shadows swooping and curling from curbside to curbside; and, as they made their way up the hill beneath towering oaks, a few lamps were being lit in houses here and there, to offer a warm friendly glow. Soft evening birdsong filled the air. From somewhere came the sound of children’s laughter; from somewhere else came the sound of a dog barking; from somewhere even more distant came the sound of someone playing a pump organ in some sacred hymn.
“It’s a pretty place you have here, Matt,” said Molly in a tone to match the gentle, homely mood.
“Sure is. By daylight, standin’ up here on one of the Seven Hills, you can see the Bay, and all the ships comin’ and goin’. I never get tired of it.”
“And yet you wanna head back to Texas,” commented James, only half-humorously.
Matt shrugged. “Maybe, little brother. Maybe not. We’ll see what the future holds.”
“Whoa, there, team,” called out James, pulling on the reins to force a stop. “Whoa, slow down.”
A glance around sent Emma quailing against the seat’s armrest. They were halted in front of the Goddard residence, with its wide welcoming front porch, set of comfortable chairs, and baskets of fragrant, blooming plants. “We’re here? At your friend’s house? But it’s so—small…”
“Small.” A flash of impatience washed over James’ features like the ripple on a pond, then was gone. “No antebellum mansion, you must be thinkin’.”
“You’ll find things are a lot different here,” put in Matt gently, “from back home. Not on a grand scale, not the same way of livin’.”
“But just as meaningful, I’m sure.” Molly added her own point of view, with a light touch on Emma’s shoulder. “You’ll see, Miss Palmer. You’ll end up loving this place.”
As the men climbed creakily down, stretched stiffened muscles, then moved to assist their passengers, Emma got the final word, in a broken whisper: “I—don’t—think so…”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
“This is delicious cornbread, Miss Goddard,” said Molly with the warm smile that encompassed catmint-green eyes and golden freckles. “I don’t suppose you could be persuaded to share the recipe.”
Frances had risen to refill the plate and pass around the table: quite full, now, almost to overflowing, with family and guests. “Oh, I might be able to part with that information,” she smiled back. “Very simple, really. Do you cook?”
“I’ve been known to dabble.”
“Great meal, ladies,” approved William, leaning back in his chair to unfasten his waistcoat. Two buttons, three; no, all the way, with a groan of repletion. As Sarah, beside him, stood up to help clear, he slipped one arm around her and grinned up, twinkling. “Full as I am, my love, I still got my eye on some of that cherry pie I saw you bakin’ earlier.”
“William,” she chided, rapping him across the knuckles with her wooden spoon. “Behave yourself. You’re with company tonight.”
As genial host, he glanced from one end to the other. “Company? Don’t see much company, Sadie. Just all the people we like havin’ with us. So whaddya say to a slice of that pie?”
Backed up against the papered wall of an alcove, behind the oval table, Matt was sitting between his nine-year-old son, Rob, and his wife, Goldenstar, so hugely pregnant that she barely fit into her chair. Next came Molly, happily absorbing fried steak and mashed sweet potatoes. Beside her sat Emma, still dressed in one of her finest gowns, nibbling at this or that and plying her Southern charm across every conversational gambit.
Then came James, head down, digging in, paying little attention to what was going on around him. His expression, Molly had noted with some concern, ran the gamut from “Thank God she’s here safe and sound.” to “Good God, what have I gotten myself into?”
It was a cordial, convivial group, one that Molly felt she could fit into easily. Especially with such a wide range of subjects to discuss, from Rob’s anticipated start of a school year in another month or so, under Miss Frances’ tutelage; to the town council’s list of proposed ordinance changes; to Molly’s questions about San Francisco’s history from its gold rush days forward; to the state of Star’s health and the choice of names—Rob’s suggestions of “Alakazam” and “Nebuchadnezzar” having been ruled out—to wedding plans and a date for the ceremony.
At this Emma perked up. “Do you have someone talented with a needle hereabouts?” she wanted to know. “I would so appreciate havin’ my dress sewn from a nice length of azure-blue satin.”
Frances’ expressionless look crossed that of Sarah’s. “Well, yes, we do have an excellent dressmaker. With all that baggage the men carried up—I mean, it seemed that, possibly—”
“What Frannie and I thought,” tactful Sarah stepped into the breach, “was that you might have wanted to bring a special dress from home, dear. Instead of waiting to have something done here.”
“Oh. Well, o’ course, I can see how you all might have been studyin’ the best thing for me. However,” settling a little more firmly into her chair with what had been seen as a flounce, Emma picked up her glass of water, “I just decided I wanted to wear somethin’ new and excitin’ for my groom on our special day.”
Her easy but proprietary touch on the muscled arm beside her drew a smile from James that might, in another light, have been considered somewhat sickly.
“I hope you all can forgive me, but I really can�
�t set a date for our weddin’ until I get my dress done,” Emma finished up complacently.
Was there any woman more hidebound and tenacious than one with a shallow brain and a shallow heart?
The excellent meal done and over with, the table cleared, the dishes ready to be washed and dried, James paused with his lady love in the parlor for a few words alone together.
“You’re lookin’ mighty pretty,” he prefaced their discussion with the nicest compliment he knew.
“What, this ol’ thing?” Emma giggled and swished her skirts. “Thank you, James. I’m glad you appreciate my tryin’ to keep up a good appearance. And all for you, Mister.” Another giggle as she pressed one finger against his chin.
Quickly he reached up to wrap his hand around hers. “We got a lotta talkin’ to do about our future, Emma. But not here, and not now. You still okay with ridin’ out to the ranch with me tomorrah?”
“Oh, yes, I am. I really am.”
“Good. We gotcha all set up in the spare bedroom upstairs, nice and comfy. Both Frannie and Will have told me you can stay here easy enough till we get hitched.”
Emma nodded. In the soft lamplight she looked like an angel come to earth, Dutch-blue eyes, golden curls, swaying hoop skirt, and all. Once again James, stuck on the other end of the pendulum and struck by second thoughts, blessed his good fortune in convincing this delightful girl to be his wife.
“And you did mention the private bath?” she asked, quite seriously.
The second thought became a third. Suddenly James wanted to bash his head against the wall.
“Honey—” he began helplessly, then gave it up. “Molly’s stayin’ here, too. She’ll help you in whatever needs t’ be done. Look, I gotta get that wagon and team back t’ the livery, so I better go for now. I’ll come by about nine in the mornin’. That all right with you?”
“Oh, perfectly all right,” she smiled.
He could have sworn he heard heavenly harps being plucked somewhere mid-air. Or maybe it was just his own over-active imagination, and it was he himself the plucking was being done to.
As he turned aside, without attempting the good-night kiss he had hoped for, James’ glance met Molly’s, just inadvertently entering the room. He shot her a look that combined agony and apology, grabbed up his hat, and bolted.
III
Most residents of San Francisco led busy, active lives: up and going at first light to start their daily routines; traipsing here and there for whatever business or chores must be done; settling at front porch and parlor only once dusk drew in, to enjoy the fruits of their labor.
That next morning the savory odors of Frances Goddard’s’ usual breakfast preparations wafted out to summon its household kitchen-ward. Bacon sizzled in a cast-iron fry pan, scrambled eggs drenched by melting butter cooked gently in another, and fresh-ground coffee perked on the back burner.
William was first to heed the call. Whistling, he clumped down the stairs, nicely shaved, with a damp towel slung over one shoulder, still putting his shirt to rights. Sarah followed shortly after, dressed in a pretty blue print gown, and immediately went to fasten an apron around her waist.
Next came Molly, looking, the sheriff reported later to anyone interested, bright as a new-minted coin in a simple white shirtwaist and russet-colored skirt that matched her hair.
“Well, now, you’re up early,” noted William, with some surprise. “It’s only seven; we figured you’d be sleepin’ in a while yet.”
“Oh, no, I’m used to rising with the sun,” Molly assured him. “I’ve already washed up and straightened my room and used your—er—your facilities, outdoors. Good morning, ladies. Is there something I can help with?”
“Not a’tall.” Forking the hot bacon strips from pan to plate, Frances was now pouring pancake batter into the hot grease. “Though it’s nice of you to ask. But Sadie and I have things under control.”
“Then I’ll be happy to do cleanup,” said Molly, sliding into her seat, “afterward. You’re all being so kind, feeding us, and giving us a place to stay.”
Sarah snorted. “Speaking for myself, I wouldn’t put Star’s old mule in what passes for the hotel in this town. Here, Molly, try some of these eggs.”
“Eggs for Molly?” protested William, only half-humorously. “What about your husband? I’m sittin’ here, bein’ ignored, starvin’ t’ death while I wait for somethin’ to stuff down my gullet before I head over t’ the office t’ put in another long day of dealin’ with miscreants. And does anybody care? Not that I can see. Nosirree.”
With a giggle that might have come from some girl half her age, Sarah handed over a plate of pancakes and bacon and then promptly plopped down on his lap to prevent his partaking of them. “Oh, hush your caterwauling, you harebrained old hooligan. I’ve spoiled you silly since the day we were married, and you know it.” Wrapping her arms around his substantial shoulders, she kissed him lavishly, soundly, and completely.
“Well. Ahem. Well, now.” Wearing a fatuous grin and a blush that went all the way to his eyebrows, the sheriff dared not meet the knowing female smiles around the room. “Uh—all right, then, Sadie, that’s all right then. Thank you.”
Molly, already enjoying her own portion, paused to once again add her appreciation. “Well, whatever the condition of the hotel, you’ve taken us in out of the goodness of your heart, and it’s wonderful. We’ll try not to upset your routines. And I don’t think we’ll be here indefinitely; just till Miss Emma gets herself settled with this wedding.”
By now both Sarah and Frances, cooking finished, had decided to take their own seats at the table; at this last remark, both women exchanged a glance. “And—uh—do you think she’ll be joining us soon?” asked Frances, as tactfully as she was able.
“Uh.” Caught unaware in a sip of scalding coffee, Molly burned her tongue and hastily set down the heavy cup. “I did knock on her door, before I came downstairs. And there was some sort of answer. But Miss Emma—well, she isn’t really a morning person.”
“Was that your experience while you were traveling west with her, dear?” asked Sarah brightly.
An uncomfortable, unhappy expression crossed Molly’s candid features. Like a child being asked to tell tales on another. “I’m sure she’ll be down soon,” she answered, after a moment. “Mr. Yancey is planning to be here at nine, so they can go visit the ranch, and have some time by themselves.”
“Getting to know each other,” was Frances’ sage opinion. “Of course, that’s the wisest thing, with both of them being so new to these parts and a married life. Would you like a pancake, Molly, with butter and some of this fine jam? How about you, Will?”
“Thanks, Frannie, but I’ve had enough for now, and I reckon I’d better skedaddle on down t’ the office. Work waits for no man, y’ know,” he added virtuously. The scrape of his chair across the wooden floorboard, as he rose, coincided with and muffled the sound of his sister’s scornful snort.
After the front door had closed upon William’s departure, the ladies lingered over the breakfast table for more coffee and feminine chit-chat—mainly Frances and Sarah plying their visitor with questions.
Fashion: were skirt hoops still so full in the Eastern cities, were fabric colors still so garish, were hairstyles still so intricate? Current events: had John Wilkes Booth actually been shot dead in a Virginia barn by Union cavalry, and was the War Between the States well and truly over? Then more intimate probes: was Miss Emma Palmer really a suitable partner for their dear friend James Yancey, and what had Molly been doing before she had put everything aside to travel here?
“Uh,” said Molly again, caught at a loss. With one woman settled comfortably on either side, she was suddenly feeling trapped, deprived of air, and anxious for an escape from such loving, if somewhat overbearing, concern. No wonder then, the show of relief on William’s craggy face at having an office to go to.
“Sadie, we should be ashamed of ourselves for prying so much,” Frances broke in.
“This poor girl looks ready to run.”
“You’re absolute right, Fran. Give her a chance to breathe.”
Answering all the impersonal inquiries stalled answering those so personal. But, eventually, that, too, came to pass. Molly girded her loins, drew in a breath, and did her best with the easier ones.
“I’m almost twenty. My mother died shortly after I was born, and, my father being unknown, I was placed in an orphanage in New York, where I grew up.”
Both ladies stiffened with horror.
“Oh, how awful,” murmured Frances.
“You poor child,” murmured Sarah.
Both reached across the table to clasp her hands. Surprised—how few, in her lifetime, had offered the consolation of a friendly touch—but pleased, Molly returned the gesture. For a few minutes, all sat in comfortable silence, sipping coffee and nibbling on the tag ends of a bacon strip, while the kitchen clock ticked quietly away. From somewhere outside, farther down their block, came the sounds of several children calling out, laughing at play, occasionally slamming a door. Birds made a joyful noise, fluttering from tree branch to tree branch; and, across the back yard, someone began wielding a squeaky water pump handle with considerable energy and enthusiasm.
“And how did you come to meet Emma, with all that distance between you?” was Sarah’s next question.
For just a moment Molly closed her great green eyes, in remembrance. “The orphanage director, who was also headmistress of our school, took an interest in me,” she finally continued. “Miss Hayden. Miss Lydia Hayden. Quite strict, but also quite fair. It was she who was responsible for my education.” And my dreams.
“An admirable woman, then.”
“Very much so. She found placement for me as a lady’s maid with a family on the outskirts of New York City, where I worked for almost two years. Actually, I was being groomed for housekeeper there.”
“Ah,” said Sarah, with the understanding due to a fellow salaried employee. “A very good position.”
A Western Romance: James Yancey - Taking the High Road (Book 3) (Taking the High Road series) Page 3
