by Deeanne Gist
She looked at him over her spectacles. “Not likely. He’s been dead almost twenty years now.”
He choked back a laugh, having no notion of what to say.
“Tonight’s topic is Bicycle Etiquette for Courting Couples,”
Mrs. Lockhart said, then leaned in close. “I do not believe Miss Spreckelmeyer has ever discussed this particular topic in front of a, um, mixed crowd.”
The touch of mischief in her eyes was unmistakable. He glanced again at Essie. She was giving lessons on etiquette? But the woman on the stage was not the ball-playing, snake-hunting, disheveled tomboy he’d walked home earlier this week. This Essie was every inch the proper, elegant, refined lady, and he found himself wondering what this side of her was like.
Returning his attention to the old woman before him, he offered her his arm. “It would be my honor to have such a lovely lady at my side this evening, Mrs. Lockhart.”
Her eyes lit up. Hooking her cane over her elbow, she placed her hand on his arm. “Come, I’ll introduce you to the girls.”
Satisfied with the arrangement of her notes on the lectern, Essie decided it was time for Shirley to call the meeting of the Corsicana Velocipede Club to order. As she looked for Shirley, the sound of deep male laughter filled the room.
She moved her attention to the refreshment table. Tony, with a coffee cup in one hand and Mrs. Lockhart on his arm, stood surrounded by the ladies of the Velocipede Club.
He looked up, caught her watching him and telegraphed her a private hello. She experienced a quick rush of pleasure.
After careful consideration over the last few days, she finally realized why Tony had bucked her authority before. When she’d looked at him, all she’d seen was a toolie, not a man.
She smoothed the hair at the nape of her neck. She admitted to herself that she’d definitely noticed the man the other night, though.
And she was sure he knew it—just like she knew he’d taken notice of her. At the moment, Mrs. McCabe, the coroner’s wife, held Tony’s attention. She was a jolly, large-chested woman with a wicked sense of humor that did not suit her husband’s occupation. Essie could not hear what the woman was saying, but her eyes were glowing and when she finished speaking, she whipped open her fan and put it to rapid use.
Tony threw back his head in laughter. The younger ladies giggled, though their eyes were downcast. The matrons, chuckling goodnaturedly, exchanged knowing looks with one another.
Essie quickly left the stage and headed toward the group.
“You’ll find Mr. Bunting a fine, civic-minded banker,” Mrs. Blanchard, secretary of the bicycle club, interjected. She was a stout woman of fine form and looked as if she’d come right out of a Rubens painting. “Now, were you to visit Mr. Delk’s bank, he’d say that he’d be happy to help carry the load. But what he means is for you to carry the piano and him to carry the sheet music.”
Tony smiled. “Sounds as if Mr. Bunting’s bank is the place to entrust my money, then?”
“I think so, yes.”
“Ah,” said Mrs. Lockhart, “here comes our teacher.”
The ladies made room for Essie.
“My dear, this is my guest, Mr. Bryant. Mr. Bryant, this is the owner of the Velocipede Club, Miss Spreckelmeyer.”
He tipped his head. “I’ve had an opportunity to become acquainted with Miss Spreckelmeyer already, as I’m a roustabout for Sullivan Oil.”
The women ahhhhed in understanding.
“Hello, Mr. Bryant,” Essie said. “Was there something you needed to see me about?”
“No, no,” Mrs. Lockhart answered for him. “He is considering membership in the club and wanted to attend tonight’s lecture on bicycle courtship.”
Essie looked at him in surprise. Mrs. Lockhart was a consummate matchmaker. Had she decided he would do nicely for one of the younger girls and brought him here to promote her agenda? Was he party to her shenanigans?
“I don’t recall seeing any guests listed on the register,” she said.
“Oh my.” Mrs. Lockhart brought a gloved hand to her lips. “I confess I completely forgot to sign him up in advance. Will you forgive me, dear?”
Something wasn’t quite right, but Essie couldn’t determine what it was. “Of course. Had I known he was coming, though, I might have chosen a more suitable topic.”
He covered Mrs. Lockhart’s hand with his. “Perhaps it would be best if I came another time.”
“No, no,” the woman responded. “We wouldn’t hear of it. Would we, Essie?”
“Don’t answer, Miss Spreckelmeyer,” he said. “I have no wish to make you uncomfortable.” He kissed Mrs. Lockhart’s cheek. “Thank you, ma’am. It’s been a pleasure.”
“Tony,” Essie said, stopping him before he could withdraw.
“Don’t be silly. You are more than welcome to stay.”
He shook his head. “Thank you, but—”
“I insist.”
Mrs. Lockhart latched on to his elbow. “There. All settled.” She gave Essie a pointed look. “Isn’t it time we start?”
“Yes, ma’am.” She made eye contact with Shirley, and the girl hastened to the stage.
Tony glanced at Essie and, with a pained look, mouthed, I’m sorry.
She waved her hand in a dismissive gesture, but Mrs. Lockhart had already commandeered his attention as she directed him to the spot she sat every week. Right on the very first row.
Having a gentleman in the house electrified the women. Some tittered, some preened, while others laughed a little too loud. The younger women cast inviting glances Tony’s direction, but he had eyes for Mrs. Lockhart alone.
Leaning much closer than was proper, he whispered something in her ear, earning himself a wicked chortle and a halfhearted slap on the arm.
Essie’s stomach fluttered. How on earth would she convey tonight’s message with Tony sitting directly in her line of vision? He towered almost a foot above the women.
She sighed. It could be worse, she supposed. He could have come to last week’s lecture on corsets. She felt ill just thinking about it.
A spattering of applause commenced and Shirley looked at her expectantly. Essie jumped to her feet. Good heavens. She’d missed her own introduction.
Stepping up to the lectern, she silently read the first line of her notes. She believed her opening statement would set the tone for the entire evening and she’d given careful thought to its wording.
The charming and fascinating power of serpents over birds is as nothing compared with what a woman can wield over a man.
She couldn’t say that now. Not with Tony sitting right there. She scanned down to the next paragraph.
A woman who once starts a man’s love can get out of him, and do with him, anything possible she pleases.
Warmth began to bedevil her cheeks. She’d lifted that statement right out of the Social Manual her mother had given her. But how could she, a thirty-four-year-old unmarried woman with more failed relationships than she cared to admit, present such an argument?
She’d thought nothing of it before when she wrote her speech. But having a man present changed everything.
Perhaps she should skip the introduction and move directly to the point at hand. She flipped her first page over. The ladies began to fidget, disrupting the stillness of the vast room with a slight fluttering of skirts as they shifted in their chairs.
Panicked at how long she’d been standing there without saying a word, Essie simply picked a sentence and started. “Marriage very rarely mends a man’s manners.”
Good heavens. She took a calming breath and pressed forward. “Goldsmith says that ‘love is often an involuntary passion placed upon our companions without our consent, and frequently conferred without even our previous esteem.’ ”
She knew only too well that statement was true.
“The first point to be considered on this subject is a careful choice of associates, which will often, in the end, save future unhappiness and discomfort.�
�
Memories of the drifter who had stolen much more than her heart the summer of ’94 swept through her, giving an urgency to her message. There were young, impressionable girls in her audience who could become the next ne’er-do-well’s victim.
“An unsuitable acquaintance, friendship, or alliance is more embarrassing and more painful for the woman than the man. Wealth, charm, and genius mean nothing if the character of the man is flawed.”
She looked from her papers to her club members. “The bicycle is responsible for much promiscuous acquaintanceship. Many elderly chaperones find it too difficult to keep up with their young charges. And if we are not very, very careful, the people lobbying to have bicycling outlawed for females will get their way.”
She had them now. Every eye was focused on her. No outdoor pastime could be more independently pursued than bicycling. None of these women wanted to give up that freedom.
Tony, however, gazed back at her, not with rapt attention but with a touch of amusement, and it hurt her feelings, then ignited her sense of injustice. Men could walk away unscathed from a licentious relationship. Women were left ruined. Stripped of their reputations, their options, their very virtue.
“Just remember this, ladies,” she said. “You cannot come to any harm unless you get off your bicycle.”
Murmurs of agreement flitted through the room. Faint laugh lines formed at the corners of Tony’s eyes.
Had she been wrong about him? Was he, in fact, simply passing through town, looking for a woman desperate enough to believe his quiet words and soft gestures?
Old wounds long since buried rose to the surface, surprising her with how swiftly and painfully they struck.
She made her next statement looking straight at him. “A man’s duty to the woman who rides could be turned into a long sermon. But long sermons are never popular. So I will briefly state that he must always be on the alert to assist his fair companion in every way possible.”
Mrs. Lockhart looked at him and he nodded at her with mock sobriety.
“He must be clever enough to repair any slight damage to her machine. He must assist her in mounting and dismounting. Pick her up when she has a tumble. And make himself generally useful. Incidentally ornamental. And quintessentially agreeable.”
He chuckled. Not out loud, of course, but he bit the insides of his cheeks, and his shoulders shook. Mrs. Lockhart gave him a stern frown.
Essie gripped the lectern. “Lastly, he is to ride at her left in order to give her the more guarded place.”
She stomped down from the bandstand and grabbed one of the two bicycles she’d had waiting in readiness for her demonstration.
The wheels stood side by side, center front.
Originally, Shirley had agreed to assist her, but now that they had a bona fide “gentleman” in their midst, there would be no need for Shirley’s help.
“In mounting, he holds her wheel.” She thrust the machine toward him. “Mr. Bryant? Would you be so kind?”
He jumped to his feet. “It would be my honor.” He turned to Mrs. Lockhart. “Please excuse me.”
Mrs. Lockhart nodded and he stepped to the front, taking hold of the bike’s handlebar.
Essie lifted her chin. “The lady stands on the left side of the machine and puts her right foot across the frame to the right pedal, which at the time must be up.” Her skirts were far too long and full for riding. She’d never meant to actually mount, just to take the women through the steps verbally. But her entire speech had gone awry.
Giving him a brisk nod, she shooed him away. “You may see to your wheel now, Mr. Bryant.” She edged the hem of her skirt up so it wouldn’t get caught in the spokes or chains. “The lady rider starts ahead.”
She pushed the right pedal, causing her machine to start and then with her left foot in place began to move forward. “She must go slowly at first, in order to give her cavalier time to mount his wheel, which he will do in the briefest possible time.”
She glanced over her shoulder, hoping against hope that he would be slow and clumsy. But he was already upon his bike and taking up his position on her left side.
They kept to the perimeter of the seated assembly. She clutched at her skirts to keep them from becoming entangled. He made no effort to avert his gaze from the show of her ankle.
Halfway around the circle, she turned her attention to her members. “When the end of the ride is reached, the man quickly dismounts and is at his companion’s side to assist her.”
The women twisted and turned, trying to keep Essie and Tony within their view. Approaching the final leg of her journey, she prepared for dismounting.
“The most approved style of alighting from one’s machine is when the left pedal is on the rise, the weight of the body is thrown onto it, and the right foot is crossed over the frame of the bike. Then, with an assisting hand, the rider easily steps to the ground.”
Before she had finished speaking, he was there. Hand out, seeing her smoothly to the ground.
They stood facing each other, the silence in the room palpable.
He grazed her gloved knuckles with his thumb. “The pleasure was all mine, Miss Spreckelmeyer.”
A collective sigh issued forth from the audience.
Essie snatched her hand from his. “Thank you for your assistance, sir.”
He took her machine, parked it next to his and returned to his seat. The women started chattering at once, sharing their thoughts on what they’d seen and learned.
Essie reached the lectern and noted with a start that Tony’s attention had never strayed from her. Mrs. Lockhart was speaking to him, but he paid her no heed. Instead, he stared intently at Essie.
It was not a flirtatious look he gave her. Or even a suggestive look. It was the look he’d given her when they played tug-of-war with her hairpin.
She swallowed and tugged her gloves more securely onto her hands. One thing was certain: His intentions toward her, honorable or otherwise, would be discernable soon enough.
chapter ELEVEN
MRS. LOCKHART pedaled her bike slowly, allowing Tony to keep up as he walked her home.
“So, Mr. Bryant,” she said, her bloomers rustling, “why did you really come to the bicycle club tonight?”
He shot her a glance. “I had some business to discuss with Miss Spreckelmeyer.”
“Business?” The wheels of her machine crunched against the gravel and dirt. “What kind of business?”
“Oil business.”
“At such a late hour?”
“I work until sundown, ma’am. By the time I clean up, eat, and walk out to the club, the hands on the clock have done some spinning.”
“Why not speak with the judge?”
Tony adjusted his hat. He wasn’t sure if the townsfolk knew exactly how involved Essie was in the running of things. “I probably should have done that, now that you mention it.”
A smile flitted across her face. “No. You did the right thing. Whatever you wanted, I’m sure Sullivan would have told you to go ask Essie.”
They took a right on Decatur Street. A door closed in the distance. As they passed a house on the corner, the lantern hanging in its window went out.
“You like Essie, don’t you?” Mrs. Lockhart asked.
He missed a step. “Uh, yes, ma’am. The Spreckelmeyers are good folks.”
“That’s not what I meant, sir.”
He remained silent, wondering how much farther it was to her home.
“Well, then, where are you from, Mr. Bryant?”
“Beaumont.”
“Beaumont. A very nice town. Do you still have family there?”
“Yes, ma’am. A mother and sister.”
“I have family there, too. A daughter and a son-in-law.”
He smiled in acknowledgment.
“I don’t rightly recall any Bryants, though.” She squinted her eyes, searching her memory. “Of course, there’s Leah Bryant. You know, Blake Morgan’s widow?”
He kept
his face carefully blank.
“Would you be related to those Bryants?”
He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his neck. “I imagine we’re all related one way or another. What’s your daughter’s married name?”
“Otter. Mrs. Archibald Otter.”
His heart began to hammer. Archie Otter was Morgan Oil’s tool pusher. His wife, Leslie, was an intimate friend of Anna’s, and the couple often sat with Tony’s family on the porch while Archie picked his banjo.
He cleared his throat. “Do you have opportunity to visit your daughter very often?”
“Yes. Quite often. Her husband works for the Morgans. Who did you work for while you were there?”
“The same.”
“Really? Then you must have known Archie.” She lowered her voice. “He’s very high up in the company, you know.”
“Yes, ma’am. Everybody knows who Mr. Otter is.”
She hit a hole in the road, causing her bike to wobble.
He reached out and steadied her.
“My son-in-law was always singing the praises of Tony Morgan, one of Mr. Morgan’s sons.” She sighed. “According to Archie, though, Mr. Morgan disappeared after being disinherited by his father. Actually, that happened right about the time you arrived in town.”
He studied her face, trying to decide if she was baiting him.
She slowed in front of a hipped-roof bungalow surrounded by a white picket fence. “I shall have to tell Archie I’ve made your acquaintance.” She looked him directly in the eyes. “He never forgets a name or face.”
She knew who he was. No question about it. Perhaps they had even met when he was with the Otters, but he could not recall one way or the other.
He assisted her off her bike.
“Won’t you come in for a refreshment, Mr. Bryant?”
He handed her cane to her and opened the gate. “I’m afraid I can’t, ma’am. It’s awfully late and I have to be out on the fields at first light.”
She walked through, then waited while he retrieved her bike and brought it inside the yard.
