Catherine

by Raine Cantrell

  Apparently the Lord had been listening. He found Catherine’s light, gay mood infectious. For a change Miss Lily wasn’t around while they gathered eggs, and even Lord Romeo disappeared. The cow might have been a stone statue but for the flow of milk, and not one horse tried to nip him when he brought out the feed buckets.

  Catherine ironed her gown and his shirt in the parlor while he bathed in the kitchen. He retreated to his room to give her privacy to bathe.

  Catherine, struggling with the buttons on the back of her gown, wished Sarah or Mary were there to help her. In more ways than one. She needed to talk with someone who would understand what she wasn’t sure she understood herself.

  She rarely wished for finer clothes again, but tonight was an exception. The gown was her best one, worn a few months ago for Mary’s wedding to Rafe McCade. But tonight she longed to impress Greg, show him that she could be every bit as beautiful as the society women who moved in his circle.

  The thought upset her. Hadn’t she learned her lesson with Louis? Appearances were not important. Louis lived his life around appearances. His horses had to be the showiest, his breeding bulls the priciest, his home a study in ostentatious taste. And his wife, as she had discovered a few months after their wedding, had been chosen for her looks to grace his arm when they were in public. Catherine thought with horror of all the grand parties that she had no hand in planning. And after the fighting in the beginning, she had given up. There was no way to change Louis’s mind, not when every other man of his acquaintance treated his wife the same.

  But she was more than her looks. She was a real person with hopes and dreams. It had taken her a long time to admit that Louis was not worthy of her love. What’s more, he did not deserve her respect. He was her husband, and she had obeyed him. She never denied him whatever he demanded of her.

  The day she buried him she had sworn a vow. She would not be docile. She would never allow any man to destroy the fragile sense of self-worth that had grown stronger and stronger with every day.

  But Greg is not Louis. And that, too, she had come to understand. She pinned her hair back from her face with carved combs. Thick curls fell down her back. She adjusted the wide, pale blue ruffle that draped her bare shoulders. The small, delicate cameo, one of the few pieces of jewelry she had left, was pinned to the pale blue ribbon that banded her throat. She drew on long white gloves, smoothing them from fingertip to above her elbows. The loop of satin ribbon attached to her fan went over one wrist, followed by the strings of her reticule. She draped a white, lacy wool shawl over her shoulders.

  A last turn before the mirror and a wish. She shrugged with a rueful smile on her lips when wishes didn’t change her into a vision of shimmering white and gold. She blew out her lamp and left her room.

  Greg waited at the foot of the stairway for her.

  Catherine simply stared at him. He was dressed in the height of gentlemen’s evening fashion in a suit of black with a snowy white, ruffled shirt front. It was not the shirt she had ironed for him. The man had hidden talents. His neckcloth and starched collar points showed in sharp contrast to the light tan he had acquired over the past week. A pearl stickpin gleamed with pale luminescence in the folds of cloth.

  She started down the staircase, thinking once more of the differences between them. He didn’t belong here in the territory. Married, she had been to far grander entertainments. Widowed, she found this evening a rare treat. But not for Greg. His life was filled with social events. What would he make of this evening?

  “Catherine,” he whispered, extending his hand as she reached the last step. “You are a lovely, lovely vision.”

  “And you…” Her voice broke. This close, the fine linen weave of his shirt shone like silk. Her fingers curled with her need to touch him. He looked exactly like what he was: wealthy, powerful.

  She cleared her throat. “You are a handsome one.” She forced a smile, wishing to banish her gloomy thoughts, and strove for a lighter tone. “I shall be the envy of every woman there tonight, having you for an escort.”

  He raised her gloved hand to his lips, pressing a heated kiss that lingered. His gaze held hers. ‘‘You are wrong. I’m the one to be envied. I’ll have one of the elusive merry widows by my side.”

  “Don’t listen to foolish gossip. And if Mrs. Pettigrew has anything to say about it, you’ll be far from my side.”

  Greg didn’t answer her. His gaze had strayed to the modest point that dipped in the front of her gown. The hint of a shadow between her breasts was as seductive as the lines of her gown were simple. He was reminded of his thought that he would love to dress her in silks and satin. Better not think of it, he warned himself. If she can scorch your blood dressed like this, she’d burn you to cinders in more fashionable clothing.

  “Your carriage awaits.” But as she moved past him, he dipped his head and pressed a kiss to her shoulder.

  “Don’t,” she whispered with a visible shiver.

  “For luck, Catherine, nothing more.”

  “Luck? Why would you need luck tonight?”

  “It’s been my experience,” he said, ushering her outside to the rented livery buggy, “that I need luck to keep my wits about me to evade the wiles of women like Mrs. Pettigrew.”

  “And we know you have successfully evaded all wiles.”

  She pulled aside the folds of her gown to make room for him on the narrow seat.

  Once more he took hold of her hand. “I want you to promise to protect me, Catherine. Part of your devil’s bargain with my sister.”

  She could only nod. But the question went begging—who would protect her from him?

  Mrs. Pettigrew’s house was set behind the main street of town. The two-story house was ablaze with lights and the yard crowded with all manner of wagons and buggies. The cool adobe brick reflected the torchlights lit along the portico that extended around three sides of the house.

  Catherine greeted Nita Mullins and introduced her to Greg.

  “Lots of foolish nonsense, if you ask me,” Nita muttered.

  “Is that why you’ve worn one of your newest gowns?” Catherine teased. “You look lovely, Nita.”

  “Like it, do you?” She performed a slow turn for Catherine to admire the green-and-white striped silk, trimmed with layers of black lace ruffles on the lower skirt. Additional cascading ruffles created a false bustle.

  “You should visit my shop, Catherine. That woman might give me pains where it ain’t polite to mention in mixed company, but she keeps her word. Brought me back fashion dolls and copies of Godey’s. The magazine ain’t the same with the new owners, but with the town growing, the women are so hungry for new fashions that they’ll do.”

  “Would you like to run away with me, Mrs. Mullins? You’d put the women attending one of the Astor’s balls to shame.”

  “Oh, prettily said. Watch out for this one, Catherine. The smooth-talking ones have your corset strings untied before you know what they’re about.”

  “Nita! Please…”

  Nita took hold of Greg’s arm as they went up the three wide steps that led to the front doors. “It’s just a little intimate dinner party for twenty or so with more coming for the dancing afterward,” she said in her best imitation of Mrs. Pettigrew.

  “Hush, Nita, she’ll hear you.”

  “Never mind, young woman. I’ve reached an age where I can indulge myself. Don’t mean no harm. Your young man understands or he wouldn’t be trying to swallow his laughter.”

  She turned to Greg. “Hortense Pettigrew gives herself some mighty fine airs as if she were born a duchess. She must want something from you to give this dinner for you. Seeing you up close, I can guess what it is. She’s looking to marry off her youngest. Not that Camilla isn’t a sweet girl, she is, but she ain’t for the likes of you. Now, you take Catherine—”

  “Nita, I insist that you stop. You’re embarrassing Mr. Mayfield and me.” She didn’t need anyone else suggesting a pairing of her and Greg. It wasn’t
to be. Ever.

  “No, it’s quite all right,” Greg hastened to assure both Nita and Catherine. “I find her insights to be true. It is refreshing to meet another honest woman.”

  Nita peered up at him. “And who is the other one?”

  “Catherine, of course.”

  “You got that right. Might still be sense in those eastern men. You’d do well to remember it, too. Well, are we gonna stand out here and jaw all night or go inside? Seems like everyone else is already here.”

  “And you love making an entrance, Nita.”

  “Goes with the age, my girl.”

  It appeared most of the guests had arrived. The large front parlor was filled with people milling about. Mrs. Pettigrew, gowned in royal purple, complete with a feathered turban to which was pinned an enormous pearl-encrusted brooch, stood in the arched doorway with her youngest daughter by her side.

  The woman’s smile of welcome was all for Greg. Catherine and Nita barely earned a nod. Nita swept by and was lost in the room, but Catherine remained as she promised, close by Greg.

  She stared at the various lengths of pearls that encircled Mrs. Pettigrew’s neck and wondered how the woman could breathe beneath their weight. Bracelets of blinding gems adorned her gloved wrists. The rings on several fingers were so large, Catherine wondered how she managed to wave her hands about.

  By contrast, Camilla was simply gowned in a pale pink silk. A wide lace ruffle of pale cream that almost matched her skin showed off bare shoulders. A small gold locket hung from a chain around her neck.

  Catherine knew Mrs. Pettigrew would not be flattered by the resulting picture they presented to her eyes. The young girl appeared a delicate, lovely flower next to her mother.

  She couldn’t stop watching Greg and gauging his reaction to the obvious ploy. His impossibly charming smile was in evidence. Polite, flowery phrases slipped from his lips with practiced ease. She had worried for nothing. The man was adept at handling any social situation. And it was anyone’s guess as to what he really thought.

  Mrs. Pettigrew, true to form, linked her arm with Greg’s and swept him into the parlor, where she proceeded to introduce him to her guests.

  “Mama doesn’t mean to be rude,” Camilla whispered as Catherine trailed along with her. “It’s just her way to appear more important.”

  Catherine nodded greetings to most of the owners of the town’s businesses. Greg, she noted, was already surrounded by the men. Peter Austin, owner of the town’s newspaper, stood beside him. Mrs. Pettigrew’s son-in-law Gerald Emmet had his arm thrown over Greg’s shoulders as if they were old friends. She knew better than to intrude on the all-male gathering, even if it irritated her.

  Buck Purcell, Gerald’s competition in banking, Chad Hudspeth, owner of the tailor shop, and Ollie Walker, who owned the lumber mill, completed the inner circle. Crowding them were Marcus Jobe and Julian Krausse, owners of the grocery and butcher shops respectively, J. P. Crabtree of the Emporium, Albert Waterman, half of Waterman and Weil Assayers, and the minister, Thomas Hoffman.

  Not up to Mrs. Pettigrew’s idea of the social elite but the best the town had to offer. Catherine was surprised that several of the major ranch owners had not been invited for dinner.

  She and Camilla continued to stroll, greeting the wives in attendance. They were like bright butterflies perched on the edge of the small chairs scattered around the room.

  “Where’s Adelaide?” Catherine asked.

  “Overseeing the kitchen. Mama is sure something will go wrong. She might be right this time. Trying to impress Mr. Mayfield is one of her stupid ideas.”

  Catherine had been too caught up in her own thoughts before, but now she heard a note of bitterness in the young girl’s voice.

  “Camilla,” she whispered, “your mama can’t force you to marry anyone. I know Mr. Mayfield intends to return east just as he arrived. A bachelor. So don’t fret.”

  “Oh, but I would marry anyone to escape her. Even someone as old as him. He is rich and handsome and my sister said that goes a long way when the lights are out.”

  “Adelaide said that?”

  “She told me only fools marry for love.”

  “Well, if you and your sister believe that, then I feel sorry for you both. Marriage should be only for love. Because you want to share your life with one very special person who is both friend and lover.”

  “Was your marriage like that, Catherine?”

  “No. I made a terrible mistake. But I wouldn’t settle for less than love if I ever married again.”

  “What’s that?” Nita asked, joining them. “Camilla, be a good girl and bring Catherine some punch. Someday I’ll get your mother to give me the recipe.” Nita steered Catherine to two empty chairs. “Sit down and stop glaring at me. I heard you. And listen to an old fool’s advice. You’ll marry again, Catherine. Some women ain’t meant to live alone. You’re one of them.” Nita’s pointed look at Greg drew Catherine’s gaze, as well.

  “Oh, no. Don’t get any matchmaking ideas about him. I wouldn’t have him delivered with a crate full of chickens.”

  “Wouldn’t, huh? But that man’s sneaking looks at you seven ways to Sunday, girl. Bet he’d have you without the crate of chickens. And you won’t wager against that.”

  Catherine pondered Nita’s question all through dinner. Mrs. Pettigrew had spared no expense in her effort to impress Greg. Deviled salmon, oysters on the half shell—specially shipped at her order in shaved ice—shrimp patties, soup, rabbit, lamb and roast beef, squabs roasted golden brown, squash topped with syrup and peanuts, creamed parsnips, watercress salad and sweet potatoes in a pie, mashed and baked.

  The accompanying sauces and thick gravies, breads, biscuits and wines made Catherine fear the table would collapse beneath the weight. Candlelight spread from branched candelabra, and a profusion of arranged flowers prevented those on one side of the table from seeing those seated across from them.

  Catherine was on the opposite side of the table from Greg, almost in the middle, while he sat at Mrs. Pettigrew’s right. The woman monopolized him all through the meal without a thought to the other guests.

  At long last the dinner drew to a close and the ladies retired to leave the men to their brandy and cigars. Dessert, Mrs. Pettigrew announced, would be served buffet-style in the front parlor after the gentlemen rejoined them.

  Catherine longed to escape the drawing room. She had a blinding headache, something she rarely suffered. She worried about leaving, about abandoning Greg.

  Several conversations whirled around her, but she paid no attention. When she saw Mrs. Pettigrew bearing down on her, Catherine edged toward the door.

  “There you are, dear girl. I wanted to have a coze with you.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t think of taking you away from your guests,” Catherine protested.

  “Nonsense. They shan’t miss me for a few minutes. And we have Mr. Mayfield to discuss.”

  Catherine offered a blank stare. “We do?”

  “My dear, you must see this is the sort of social setting the man is used to. And we cannot forget the impropriety of you living in the house alone with him. You may not be aware of it, Catherine, but people are talking.”

  Glancing around the room, Catherine found that to be true, but she didn’t see more than one or two curious gazes sent her way.

  Mrs. Pettigrew went on. Catherine rubbed her temple. In a blinding flash of pain she made her decision.

  “Thank you for a lovely dinner. I am sure Mr. Mayfield appreciated the trouble you went to to impress him. I can’t in all honesty thank you for your unsolicited advice. Please convey my regrets and tell Greg—that is, Mr. Mayfield—that I had to leave.”

  “Catherine, you can’t—”

  She turned on her hostess. “Yes, I can. I am a widow, Mrs. Pettigrew, just like you. I have always conducted myself in a respectable manner. I will not have you, or anyone else, question my behavior. If any of your other guests hold the same narrow-minded vie
ws as you do, you are all welcome to them. Good night.”

  Catherine didn’t stop for her shawl. She fled into the cool night. On the path leading to the street she ran into Caroline, who was arriving for the dancing.

  There was just enough moonlight for her to see that her friend was terribly upset. Caroline held on to Catherine.

  “Where are you running to?”

  “Home. Where I should have stayed.”

  “What’s wrong? This isn’t like you. And where is the handsome Mr. Mayfield?”

  They withdrew into the shadows of the trees as others arrived. Catherine cast an anxious glance toward the open doors of the house. She couldn’t imagine why she half expected to see Greg coming after her. After all, he didn’t know yet that she had left. Nor could she explain why that made her want to cry.

  “Why are you running away? What did that woman say to you?”

  “Caroline, if you are truly my friend, please don’t ask me a lot of questions I can’t answer. I just want to go home.”

  Caroline tilted a head full of auburn curls to one side. “I’ve got a notion that Mrs. Pettigrew lectured you about living out there alone with him. She’s been trying to stir up—”

  “I don’t care. She can say whatever she likes. I need to go.”

  Catherine pulled free and hurried to the street.

  “You can’t walk home!” Caroline called out.

  “It’s just what I need.” Catherine avoided the main street. There was no point in asking for trouble with some drunken cowhand who had too much celebrating under his belt. She used the alleys behind the buildings, and once on the road outside town, kept to the middle. This way she could hear if anyone was coming in either direction and get off the road.

  Running away—Caroline had been right to call it that—was the most cowardly act of her life. All she could think of, all she would allow herself to think about, was that Mrs. Pettigrew was right. Not about Greg living with her alone, but that she didn’t belong in a world that judged people by their social standing, their clothes or how many ways there were to serve oysters eaten at some fancy hotel. She didn’t even like oysters!