They reached the chairs and sat down. Gerald pulled his chair close to Flora, looked deep into her eyes, and said in a low voice, “I thought I was going to be late, for I have been literally in despair trying to find a skilled saw filer. I had heard that a man coming in the latest wagon train from Chicago was such a man. I questioned the wagon master and several of the trail hands and thought that perhaps this might have been one of the settlers named Odom, but when I finally located Mr. Odom, what do you think I found?”
Already Flora was having trouble concentrating on this deadly boring conversation, but she managed to reply, “I don’t know, Mr. Small. What did you find?”
“He was nothing but a common cutler,” Gerald groaned dramatically. “A knife sharpener, for goodness’ sake! And so I have yet to find a saw filer, and it’s possible I may have to hire one from Kansas City! Can you imagine the cost of paying a skilled saw filer to move out here and begin work in a brand-new sawmill?”
“No, I can hardly imagine it,” Flora said wearily. “Mr. Small, I know this is very forward of me, but they are beginning the polka, and I should love to dance. It is one of my particular favorites.”
He looked bemused at Flora’s peculiar request—women simply did not ask men to dance—but gamely he took her arm. “Of course. I declare, I have been so worried about my saw filer that I quite forgot my manners. May I have this dance, Miss Cooke?”
He was not a bad dancer, but he was mechanical, and his conversation during the dance was very much like his previous one—indeed, much like all his previous ones, Flora reflected. He led her around the floor, the oddly automatic movements seeming peculiar in the spirited dance, still lamenting about his saw filer and, also, if Flora was hearing him correctly, about something called a “pitman arm.”
When the polka ended, he led her back to her chair, holding her arm. As they reached their seats, he said in her ear, “I shall fetch you some punch, as it is rather warm in here and I should like you to be refreshed. There is a matter of some importance I want to discuss with you when I return.”
She took her seat, suddenly wishing she was going to hear more about the saw filer and Mr. Pitman’s arm.
However, as usual, Flora was not alone for long. She had made three particular friends, two girls whose families were at the fort and one girl from town. They crowded around her, bringing their gentleman escorts at hand, and some other of the troops from the fort joined them. Flora found herself at the center of a crowd, and as always, she was entertaining them. Someone had complimented her on her hair, and she was telling the story of Ruby poking the flowers into it. “It was like she was sticking them into a vase, all every which way. I think if I hadn’t made her do it all over, I’d be looking like I was wearing an urn on my head,” she said drolly.
Miss Leona Pruitt—who would have incurred Ruby’s wrath had she known it—had the “handsome Finch boy” on her arm and said warmly to Flora, “Oh, that’s nonsense, Flora. You always look so lovely, especially with all of your new clothes for your debut! And that new dress … Please, stand up and turn around. Let us see it!”
Choruses of agreements followed, so Flora stood, held her skirts gracefully, and turned slowly.
“Oh, it’s just beautiful,” Leona Pruitt sighed, a little enviously. She had six sisters, she was the fourth one, and she very rarely got a new ball dress.
Flora had completed her turn and started to reply, but suddenly a man standing in a group rather far down the room caught her attention. He was tall with reddish hair and a fierce mustache and thick, long beard. He was barrel-chested and strong-looking, and Flora could have sworn that even at this distance she could sense an immense physical strength.
Abruptly, midlaugh, he turned to look directly at her, and their eyes met. The smile faded from his face, and Flora’s eyes widened. To Flora, it seemed as if they stared at each other for a long time, but she knew it must only have been seconds.
When she collected herself to turn back to the group, they were still saying admiring things about her new dress. She felt odd, answering them automatically, still sensing some sort of vague physical connection to the man. It was as if he were standing too close to her, and she felt uncomfortable. But of course he was not; she stole another quick glance, and he, too, had turned back to his acquaintances and was laughing again.
Now she noticed Gerald at the fringe of the group, holding two cups of punch, and saying rather ineffectually to two dragoons who were crowded close, “Mm, excuse me? That is … if you would excuse me, please, um, sir? Private?”
Admittedly the group was rather loud and merry, and for an instant, Flora felt sorry for Gerald. He never seemed to actually have any fun. She started to say something, to beckon him to her side.
“Good evening, ladies, gentlemen,” a booming voice said. He was looking directly at Flora, and she froze. He was not quite six feet, but his sheer physical size made him seem like a big man. His dark blue dress uniform was of a 2nd lieutenant of the 1st U.S. Cavalry and was immaculate and pressed to perfection, his thigh-high cavalry boots shined to dark mirrors.
She looked into his eyes and suddenly felt much too warm and knew her cheeks were flushing. He had blue eyes, hot blue like the July noon sky, and he looked at her as if he already knew her, all about her—too much about her.
He stepped into the circle around her—people automatically moved aside for him—and stood looking down at her. He smiled at her, and the smile was gentle, but his eyes danced with devilment. “Hello, ma’am. I’m very new here, so I don’t know many people yet. But I would like to dance with you. The very next dance.”
With a supreme effort, Flora collected herself. What was wrong with her anyway? She’d met at least a hundred soldiers in her life, many of them strong, handsome, dashing men. Here was another. And a very forward one at that.
“Sir, I hope you feel welcome here at Fort Leavenworth, but I’m afraid we have not been properly introduced,” she said, much more stiffly than she intended. She sounded like her father, she reflected with exasperation.
He turned around and looked at the people around Flora. They all stood close, waiting eagerly for the progression of the interesting scene. Except Gerald, who looked utterly taken aback.
Finally the man pointed to a soldier, a private in a 1st Cavalry uniform. “You! You’re Eccleston, aren’t you? Private Eccleston? Jerry Eccleston, is it?”
“Sir, no sir,” he said, stepping forward and standing at painful attention. “I’m Private George Cary Eggleston, sir.”
“Do you know this lady, Private Eggleston?” he demanded, gesturing to Flora.
“Yes, sir. No, sir. I’ve been introduced to her, sir,” he answered, his boyish face turning deep crimson.
“Then introduce us,” the lieutenant ordered.
“Yes, sir,” Eggleston said and then, still at attention, stepped to stand by the lieutenant’s and Flora’s side. “Lieutenant Stuart, I have the pleasure of introducing you to Miss Flora Cooke, the daughter of our commanding officer, Colonel Philip St. George Cooke. Miss Cooke, it is my honor to present to you Second Lieutenant James Ewell Brown Stuart of the 1st Cavalry. He has just arrived here from a posting at Jefferson Barracks, near St. Louis.”
Lieutenant Stuart took Flora’s hand, and even through her glove she could feel the heat from his lips as he pressed a kiss to her hand.
Private Eggleston, with ill-disguised relief, stepped back, quickly grabbed a girl’s arm, and rushed off to the punch table.
James Ewell Brown Stuart took Flora in his arms and swept her off right in the middle of a waltz. Already Flora could tell he was a wonderful dancer, both powerful and graceful. “My friends call me Jeb,” he said.
Flora still felt a little breathless, but she was a resourceful woman, and the little charade of the introductions had given her time to calm down. “Do they, sir?” she replied lightly. “What do first acquaintances call you when they’ve only known you for about thirty seconds?”
“Lieutenant Stuart. But I want you to call me Jeb.”
“I will not, sir. We may have been properly introduced—of a sort—but I would never take such a liberty with a man I’ve just met.”
“Hm. And so I suppose I may not call you Miss Flora?”
“Certainly not.”
“Guess I’d better behave”—he sighed theatrically—“since you, Miss Cooke, are the daughter of my commanding officer. But you can still call me Jeb whenever you want to.”
“I’m afraid at this time I don’t want to, Lieutenant,” Flora said, teasing him. She sensed the high spirits of her dancing partner and was quite sure he sensed hers as well.
“You will,” he said airily. “Won’t be long, either. You will.”
Flora rolled her eyes. “You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you?”
“Pretty much,” he answered airily. “Aren’t you?”
She was taken aback at his words.
The dance ended, and Lieutenant Stuart took her back to her seat.
Gerald, who was sitting alone waiting for her, rose, his finely modeled face rather sulky. “There you are, Flora. I thought you were supposed to wait for me to bring you some punch.”
“I’m sorry, Gerald, but the waltz is my favorite, you know,” she said carelessly.
“Thought it was the polka,” he muttered darkly.
“No, not at all. The waltz,” she said brightly. Then she introduced the two men.
Gerald looked up at the powerful bulk of Jeb Stuart and his penetrating eyes and fierce beard. To Flora, his face registered something close to contempt, as if he were a nobleman being introduced to a commoner. “How do you do, Lieutenant?” Gerald asked frigidly.
“Much better, now that I’ve been introduced to Miss Cooke and have had the great pleasure of dancing with her.” He turned back to Flora, bowed slightly, and said, “Since you love to waltz, Miss Cooke, I’d like to claim the next one. Until then …” He moved to return to his group of friends, and Flora couldn’t help but watch him walk away. He knew it. When he reached them, he turned and winked at her.
“Arrogant,” she breathed to herself, turning quickly back to Gerald.
“I thought that I was to get you some punch, and then we were going to talk,” he said accusingly as they sat down. “The punch grew warm.”
“I didn’t realize that we were on a timetable,” she said, a little sharply. “I understand those were your plans, but this is a dance, Mr. Small. People dance here.”
“Yes, yes, dancing. But I have something very important I want to speak to you about, Miss Cooke.”
“But—but surely we don’t have to have such a serious discussion right now, do we?” she pleaded. In spite of herself, her eyes kept searching out Lieutenant Stuart.
“It is, as I said, very important,” Gerald insisted. He reached over and took her hands, and Flora was so startled she didn’t draw them back. “Miss Cooke—that is, may I call you Flora?”
“No,” she said absently. The musicians were playing an allemande now, and Lieutenant Stuart, Flora saw, was dancing with her friend Leona Pruitt. Leona had a brilliant smile that lit up her face, and she was definitely bestowing that smile on the lieutenant. It distracted Flora much more than it should have.
“What?” Gerald said, shocked. “But—why ever not? I’ve been calling on you for almost a month now.”
With an effort, Flora turned her attention back to him. “Yes, I know, Mr. Small. You’ve been very attentive, and I enjoy your company. But just think, we have only known each other for less than a month. In fact, we hardly know each other at all, do we?”
He blinked several times. “I thought we knew each other. We do know each other.”
She sighed. “What is my favorite color?”
He looked utterly blank.
“Do I play any musical instruments?”
Still the same uncomprehending stare.
“And where, Mr. Small,” she continued, now gravely, “am I moving to, in just a little over one month, to make my social debut?”
“I know this one,” he said desperately. “Philadelphia. You’re—oh, I see. You are leaving in a month, then.”
“Yes.”
He shook his head and took her hand again, though this time Flora resisted slightly. She didn’t want to vulgarly yank it away, however, so he held it and looked at her, his mild blue eyes suddenly filled with determination. Flora thought that it must be how he looked when he was about to close a business deal. “No, Fl—Miss Cooke. I think—I know that before then you will find that you want to stay here, with me.”
“Please, Mr. Small, you are mistaken. I do appreciate your attentions, but I’m afraid you may have misunderstood mine.” Flora went on as reasonably as she could to try to convey that she was not at all interested in him, but the look on his face merely grew more closed and stubborn. “And so, you see that I am trying to make certain that you make no mistake concerning our—our—”
“Miss Cooke,” Lieutenant Stuart said jovially, “finally! It is our waltz.” He held out his hand. Flora pulled away from Gerald, but he stood with her, looking up at Jeb Stuart.
“I think you should know, Lieutenant,” he said with a definite snobbish timbre to his voice, “that I have spoken to Colonel Cooke.”
“Me, too,” Jeb said mildly. “He’s my commanding officer.”
“No, I mean—what I mean is, I’ve spoken to him about Fl—Miss Cooke,” Gerald insisted.
“Have you?” Jeb asked with interest. “I don’t blame you. I’d like to talk to people about Miss Cooke, too. But mostly I’d like to talk to her. So if you’ll excuse us, Mr. Small …”
Again they left Gerald standing helplessly alone, confused and irritated.
Jeb grinned down at her. His grin, and his laugh, were completely infectious. “Is he a lawyer or something?”
Flora found herself smiling like a girlish idiot the entire time she talked with him. “No, he’s a businessman. Right now he’s opening a sawmill. He and his family already own a hotel and a flour mill.”
“Is he rich?” Jeb asked.
“I don’t know,” Flora answered carelessly. “It’s really no business of mine.”
“That’s good,” Jeb said beaming. “So you’re not going to marry him then?”
“What! Marry him? No, no, no. No, that’s just not possible,” Flora fumed.
“No, it’s not,” Jeb agreed. “It’s not meant to be. That much is obvious.”
“What are you talking about? You don’t know him. What am I saying? You don’t know me, either.”
“But you just told me you’re not going to marry him.”
“But that doesn’t mean it’s not meant to be,” Flora shot back.
Jeb threw back his head and laughed. All around them people watched him, and they couldn’t help it; they grinned.
Finally Flora saw the absurdity of the conversation and giggled a little in spite of herself. “I think—no, I know that was the silliest argument I’ve ever had with a person.”
“Let’s hope all our arguments turn out to be silly, and then we’ll laugh at them afterward,” Jeb said. He squeezed her hand the tiniest bit. Men, of course, did not wear gloves during dancing or dining. She was very aware of the heat of his hand, of how it swallowed hers, of the way he very gently touched her back, but she could still sense the power, the vitality of him.
“All of them?” she asked. “So we are to have arguments, then?”
“It was meant to be,” he said, now quietly. “All of it. You, me, this night, this dance was meant to be.”
She searched his face and found none of the usual frivolity there. He looked thoughtful. “What do you mean, Lieutenant?” she asked softly. “How can that be?”
He searched her face for long moments. “I have always believed that God prepares a man for one certain woman. And He prepares that woman for him.”
“That is a very deep theological concept, Lieutenant Stuart,” she said, trying to
restore some lightness to the curious turn the conversation had taken. “So how would this woman know which man was fated to be her husband?”
Sensing her slight withdrawal, Jeb answered, “All you have to do is take a look at Eve. There she was. There he was. She knew right away that God had made them to be together.”
“Your logic is flawed, sir. She had no other choice to make.”
He made a slight shrug, although it didn’t affect the grace of his dancing. “You’re probably right, ma’am. Logic isn’t my strong point. Dancing, however, is. And may I say that you are one of the finest dancers of any lady I’ve ever seen.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. You are a very skilled dancer yourself.”
“Thank you, ma’am! I love music, and I love dancing,” he said enthusiastically. “I’m afraid I have no skill in music, except for a keen enjoyment of it. Do you play an instrument or perhaps sing, Miss Cooke?”
“I play the piano, and even some guitar, and I enjoy both very much. I do sing, although not as well as some. But like you, sir, I do enjoy all good music.”
“And waltzing,” he added. “By any chance, may I claim the rest of your waltzes tonight, Miss Cooke?”
“It would be considered very impolite for us to monopolize each other, you a newly arrived single gentleman, and an officer, and me, the daughter of the commander of the post,” she considered. “But I don’t think either of us shall be ostracized too much. Yes, Lieutenant Stuart, you may have the waltz for the rest of the night.”
“How about all of the dances for the rest of the night?” he asked impishly.
“That would be entirely too scandalous. The waltzes are enough. And you, sir, do not tell me how ‘it is meant to be.’ I’ve already pointed out the flaw in that theorem.”
There were several more waltzes during the ball. In general, Flora felt neither Lieutenant Stuart nor she was considered to be acting in a rude manner—except by Gerald Small, who continued to try to monopolize her—but the fact that she and the lieutenant danced together so much was certainly noted. She was certain Jeb Stuart commanded attention wherever he went and with whatever he did. And of course, as Flora was the commanding officer’s daughter, her actions were of interest to the entire fort and the little town.
The Sword Page 2
