Her Wyoming Man

by Cheryl St. John

  Their hostess caught Ella’s eye and joined her. Phoebe raised her eyebrows. “I see you found a drink.”

  “The sherry is good,” Ella told her.

  “I take a sip or two myself now and then,” Phoebe said and then leaned forward. “But I wouldn’t let the other ladies see me doing it.”

  Ella lowered her glass. “Is it unladylike?”

  Phoebe tilted her head. “Some think it’s unbecoming.”

  “Oh.” Ella looked for a spot to set her glass, and Phoebe took it from her and set it behind a potted fern. “Thank you. I’ve been concerned about making a mistake like that. I don’t want to reflect poorly on my husband.”

  “You couldn’t reflect poorly if you tried,” Phoebe said with a sincere smile. “You’re far too lovely and well mannered.” She gestured to a doorway. “Would you like to see my latest project?”

  Phoebe led her into a lavishly decorated room that held a piano, several upholstered chairs and an array of potted plants and artwork on wrought iron stands. Every surface was covered with fringed and lace scarves, ornate frames, small fabric boxes and cut glass bowls holding flower petals and leaves.

  “This screen,” she told Ella, “is what I’ve been working on for weeks.”

  The object was a hinged folding screen. Hundreds of colorful images of ladies and flowers had been affixed in a detailed collage. “I covered the chair seats over the winter.”

  Ella noticed the needlepoint designs Phoebe referred to, as well as pillows adorned with intricately stitched flowers. She couldn’t imagine the time it had taken to do all this. “You made all of these?”

  The woman nodded and drew Ella’s attention to an ornament made out of shells and broken bits of blue-and-white china. “I gave several of these for Christmas gifts last year.”

  Ella wasn’t sure what it was, but she nodded. “How unique.”

  “What do you work on in the evenings?” Phoebe asked.

  Ella mostly busied herself with seducing her husband, but she was sure Phoebe didn’t want to hear about that. “I’m barely unpacked,” she replied.

  “Well, of course.” Phoebe gestured to the screen again. “I have scraps and pictures left if you have a glue project in mind. What do you collect?”

  Ella let her gaze touch on the bowls and baskets adorning surfaces. “A little of everything, much like you.”

  “There you are!” Betsy Iverson came through the doorway with a swish of taffeta skirts. She stopped short and admired Phoebe’s folding screen. “It’s just lovely. How long has it taken you?”

  “Since February.” Phoebe’s pride was obvious in the way she held her shoulders straight and tipped her head as though acknowledging a grand accomplishment.

  Ella felt decidedly awkward and unknowledgeable about the things with which these women concerned themselves. Did Nathan expect her to be stitching chair seats and pasting pictures in every spare moment? He certainly didn’t expect her to do household chores, or perform sexual favors—what else remained?

  “I’m afraid I’m still very new to being a wife.” Ella looked from Betsy to Phoebe. “May I defer to your wisdom and expertise to ask you a few questions?”

  “Certainly,” Phoebe replied. “Have a seat. Betsy, join us, please.”

  Ella settled herself on a chair. “What exactly are your duties in your households?”

  The women were more than happy to oblige her by sharing their domestic responsibilities, which included overseeing the hired help, light cleaning, meal planning and dinner party preparations.

  “The school where I grew up left me sorely unprepared,” Ella told them. “I have no idea how to do these things.”

  “I can’t imagine why a girls’ academy would leave their young ladies in such a state. It shows a complete lack of foresight. You certainly must learn now that you’re a wife,” Betsy admonished her. “Your mission is to create a paradise of peace and purity. It’s the first duty of a wife to make home the most pleasant and happiest place on earth. We consult women’s journals for matters of fashion, etiquette, furnishings, needlework, motifs and table settings.”

  “There are guidebooks, as well,” Phoebe told her. “I’ll loan you mine.” She gave Ella a long look. “Betsy’s right. It’s difficult to imagine a school for young ladies that didn’t teach the accomplishments necessary for home culture. I learned needlework and carried a workbag when I was but eleven years old.”

  “Indeed, my education was sorely lacking,” Ella replied.

  “What are your accomplishments, dear?” Betsy asked. “China painting?”

  Ella’s heart sank.

  “Musical talent?”

  “Yes!” Ella said, jumping on the last. “I read and play music. I’ll be teaching the children as soon as the new piano arrives.”

  The other women smiled and nodded at each other as though relieved they wouldn’t have to oust an uncouth guest from their presence.

  “Other than that, I studied art and history and French.”

  “You speak French?” Betsy asked.

  Ella nodded. “Fluently.”

  The women shared another look.

  “I dare say you’ll be the only woman in Sweetwater with an accomplishment that refined,” Phoebe told her. “Minnie Oliver will be green with envy.”

  “And yet,” Betsy said with a serious nod, “your home must be elegantly beautified. Unsightly unadorned bareness calls a woman’s character into question, and you mustn’t foist that indignity upon your husband.”

  “Of course not,” Ella agreed. She glanced around, pained now by her ignorance. “I have no idea where to start.”

  Betsy took a deep breath and released it. “We’ll help you.”

  Ella gave her a grateful smile.

  Phoebe gestured to the piano. “Why don’t you play for us?”

  She had played for the guests at Madame Fairchild’s most evenings. She hadn’t imagined that playing for these people would be acceptable, but the women all looked at her with expectant smiles.

  Nervous jitters erupted in her chest, but she moved to the piano bench.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sitting, Ella opened the heavy mahogany lid away from the keyboard. Phoebe owned an extraordinary instrument. Ella experienced a trill of pleasure just looking at it, and her fingers tingled with anticipation.

  The hostess arranged several sheets of music so Ella could read the fronts. She didn’t recognize any, but she opened one titled “Silver Threads Among the Gold” and played. The women immediately sang along.

  As the song finished and the women clapped, Ella tested a few B flat major chords, immediately recalling a concerto written by a German composer. It was as natural as breathing to flow into the piece. It had been weeks since she’d played, and immediately, she fell into the music, losing herself in the notes and the passion. It never failed to amaze her that the great composers had arranged chords and measures in such a remarkable fashion as to create breathtaking pieces.

  Her first teacher had convinced Madame Fairchild that Gabrielle had surpassed his ability to teach her, and the woman had hired a man of Russian descent to instruct her for two whole years. The lessons and practice time had been Ella’s escape, and she’d soaked up every moment as a freedom to do something she enjoyed. After that, her punishment for not following Madame Fairchild’s strictest orders had been banishment from the music room.

  Ella had always been obedient.

  The last notes of the concerto faded away, and she took a deep breath. Collecting herself, she pressed her hands together and looked up.

  Betsy had tears in her eyes. The other women appeared decidedly moved, as well. Clustered around them now were the rest of the party guests, who’d gathered unbeknownst to Ella as she played. Embarrassed by the attention, she blushed and found Nathan watching her with an astonished expression.

  One or two at a time, the bystanders applauded, until everyone was clapping and nodding and giving her appreciative smiles.

&
nbsp; “That was beautiful,” Mildred told her, and others agreed.

  Blushing, Ella stood and made her way to Nathan. “I’d like a cup of punch.”

  He led her to the other room and dipped a cup of cold liquid. “I had no idea you were so gifted.”

  She thanked him and accepted the cup. “I told you I could play and teach.”

  “But I had no idea,” he said again. “Many women play the piano, Ella. You are accomplished. I can’t even tell you how your music made me feel. As Mrs. Evans said, it was beautiful.”

  For the first time, he’d truly seen her. Satisfaction flooded her being in a warm rush. She blinked hard to dispel the unaccustomed sting of tears. His appreciation for her musical ability meant more than a thousand compliments on her appearance. She was pleased to have made a positive impression on his friends, but Nathan’s high regard was all that actually mattered.

  She drank punch and ate a few hors d’oeuvres, but the rest of the evening was a blur because of the emotion that had risen to the surface and now colored her every movement and thought.

  During the walk home, Nathan entwined his fingers with hers and later kissed her tenderly as they stood in the dimly lit foyer. She’d only ever dreamed of a man looking at her the way Nathan did, with admiration and respect. She didn’t deserve either, but she wanted his esteem more than anything. For the first time she resented the necessity of her deception. She had no choice, however. She’d made a plan and followed it through, and without the lie, none of this would be hers. She had to live with the fabrication now. Somehow the ruse had to become her reality.

  “Good night, Ella,” her husband said in a low voice and led her up the stairs. “Sleep well.”

  Later, Ella couldn’t fall asleep for all the ideas and concerns whirling in her head. She got up, donned her silk robe and house slippers and lit lamps in the foyer and the parlor.

  The surfaces were indeed bare of ornamentation, and there was nary a scrap of lace or a tassel in sight. She would soon be expected to entertain, and this home had to reflect good taste and refinement. It was imperative she create an atmosphere to reflect positively on her husband. What she chose to do now could have an impact on his nomination and election. She would not be a detriment.

  Picking up one of the women’s journals that Phoebe had sent home with her, she skimmed pages, pausing to read advice that confirmed what she’d been told. “Woman should develop her artistic nature and give herself full scope in home adornment,” an expert advised. The items wives created were important symbols of domesticity and feminine nature.

  “A woman occupied with sewing,” she read aloud, “while paying a call or sitting in front of the evening fire, presents a more captivating sight with her hands occupied by a bit of handiwork.”

  Nathan would find her more captivating if she held a needle and thread. Ella closed the magazine and placed it on the divan beside her. Of course, a decent man expected a chaste and moral woman, one knowledgeable about homemaking and entertaining.

  She wished it were morning, so she could go to town and get her arduous task underway. She was going to make herself appealing to Nathan if it took every bit of fortitude she possessed.

  During the following week, Ella purchased supplies and ordered from the catalogs at the general store. Now, rather than ordering shoes and stockings and clothing, she ordered fringe scarves and lace, as well as small boxes and a folding screen to decorate. She set up a table at one end of Nathan’s study, and in the evenings, she worked on her various projects.

  On Thursday she attended the choir rehearsal at church, and the other women welcomed her into their midst. One of the other girls who’d traveled to Sweetwater with their group attended, as well. Afterward when they met at Minnie Oliver’s for tea, Ella recognized Rita Thomas’s struggle to fit in.

  Rita watched the others for her cues on how to prepare her tea and hold her china plate and cup. The poor girl’s hand trembled so harshly, tea sloshed over the rim of her cup and saucer and splashed on the arm of the chair.

  Minnie went for a cloth and cleaning solvent, and Rita got tears in her eyes and set down her cup.

  “It’s all right, dear,” Minnie told her. “No harm done, see?”

  Rita nodded, but she excused herself and headed for the door.

  The other women blinked in distress. Betsy looked to Ella. “I don’t mind talking to her, but perhaps since she’s your friend, you will be more of a comfort.”

  Ella had only exchanged a handful of words with Rita before their trip to Wyoming, but she got up and made her way out to the porch.

  Rita sat on a padded wicker chair, her hands twisted in her lap. She looked up with tears in her eyes as Ella approached. “I ruin everything I attempt.”

  “The chair is fine. Anyone could have spilled a little tea.”

  “You wouldn’t have.”

  “Minnie feels badly that you’re upset.”

  “I’m so nervous around these women,” she admitted. “I feel like a fraud every time they look at me or talk to me.”

  “You’re not a fraud, Rita. You’re a respectable woman now. You belong here.”

  Rita raised luminous brown eyes. “Do you feel as though you belong?”

  “I’m determined to do whatever it takes to belong,” she replied. “This life is everything we ever wanted. And now it’s ours. Is your new husband a good man?”

  Rita nodded and relaxed her features. “Yes. He’s a very good man.”

  “Can you be happy with him?”

  She gave Ella a watery smile. “Yes.”

  Ella nodded. “Afternoon tea isn’t such a difficult task compared to Dodge, is it?”

  “Not at all.” Rita took a handkerchief from her pocket and dried her eyes. “I just get so nervous around decent ladies. I feel like they can see right through me.”

  “Well, they can’t. Put on your best smile and let’s have tea.” Ella got to her feet.

  Rita linked her arm through Ella’s and they went back inside.

  Minnie’s house was as effusively decorated as the Crandalls’. The walls and even the ceiling were papered with coordinating patterns and the drapes were held open with tasseled cords. Minnie displayed glass bottles and small portraits in oval frames on tables. She had a cabinet overflowing with heavy crystal stemware, and painted china plates hung in pleasing arrangements on the walls.

  Ella studied the massive mantelpiece made of mirror and shelves that held china figurines. She hadn’t collected near enough bric-a-brac yet. “Rita, will you join me in a trip to the general store this afternoon?”

  “Of course,” Rita replied, but she appeared surprised at the invitation.

  Later, as they walked toward the main street, Ella asked, “Do you collect anything?”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Have you seen the rooms full of things that these women own? I’ve studied, and a woman is expected to have all that. Anything less is uncouth.”

  After first stopping at the bank, where Ella had set up an account upon her arrival, they visited three stores, making purchases and placing orders. When Rita hedged that she wasn’t comfortable spending her husband’s money on frippery, Ella asked her if she would mind spending Ansel Murdock’s money. Rita laughed and Ella paid for their purchases.

  She arrived home to discover the piano had been delivered. To her amazement, it wasn’t an upright version, but a lovely black lacquered baby grand. It would be another day before someone came to tune it, so for now, she admired it and planned how she would arrange and decorate the room around it.

  The following day, she made a trip back downtown to purchase tables and cabinets from the furniture maker. That night she asked Nathan if she could hire someone to help her rearrange furniture, and he agreed.

  Nathan had no idea what had set his new wife to this project of redecorating their home, but if it made her happy, he was glad to see her at it. On Tuesday he entered the dining room for supper to discover a piece of f
urniture he didn’t recognize. An enormous mirror backed a massive sideboard with shelves down each side and across the top. Unfamiliar pieces of china and porcelain shone in the gaslight.

  “Where did you acquire all of those dishes?” he asked as they ate supper.

  “I ordered them. Do you like them?”

  “Yes. Yes, I do.”

  Two brass vases filled with dried grass stalks and tall peacock feathers sat on either side of the mirror. “The vases are unusual.”

  “I bought a pair of blue-and-white porcelain vases, too, and I can’t make up my mind which I like more in here, these or the others. Tomorrow I’ll set out the others, so you can compare.”

  Nathan glanced at Mrs. Shippen, and she met his eyes, but simply ate her supper without comment. He decided to do the same.

  A few days later, he arrived home from work just as two young men were leaving. They greeted him politely and mopped sweat from their brows as they hurried down the stairs away from the house.

  “Papa! Come look!” Christopher called from the far end of the entry hall.

  Nathan hung his jacket on the newel post and hurried forward. The first thing he noticed was the fringed drapery hung across the doorway and fastened back to one side. The room that had been the sitting room had been transformed until he didn’t recognize it. The piano took up one corner, the area behind it filled with tall potted ferns on brass stands.

  The furniture was grouped into small conversation areas, and half a dozen tables and new chairs had been added.

  In the center of the room stood a round dark wood table with a base that resembled a harp. Several squat pedestals holding plaster busts topped the table. Two of the men he recognized as Chopin and Beethoven, and he assumed the others were composers, as well.

  Wine-colored drapes swagged to each side of the windows, revealing panels of lace curtains. Every surface held collections of shells and ornate boxes. Grace stood transfixed watching a pair of china dancers spin inside an open music box.

  His first inclination was to ask where it had all come from, but words escaped him, and his loss was probably for the best.