by Lorin Grace
She closed her eyes and tried to imagine her parents behaving in such a loving manner. She couldn’t. They owned a large house with a cook, two maids, and a stable boy. The food was abundant and space abounded. Everyone had a bedroom of their own, including the help. The Stewards had none of that. She couldn’t imagine the crowd around the table when the other five children were home. But they were happy—and judging by the murmurs and giggles coming from beyond the blanketed doorway, very much enamored with each other.
If she ever found a man to marry, she hoped he would like her as much as Mr. Steward liked Deborah. It might be better to be poor and happy than to be like her mother. She needed Aunt Mina’s advice.
Once again Gideon found himself sitting next to Elizabeth in her aunt’s little buggy. She stifled a yawn, the dark circles under her eyes matching the story David shared. The baby had started crying in the wee hours. With Deborah confined to her bed, Elizabeth had walked miles around the table before the infant had finally quieted and slipped into slumber. By the time she’d returned to her pallet on the floor, the rooster was crowing.
Another yawn broke the silence as he drove. Elizabeth hadn’t spoken since she’d flopped into the seat. He glanced over and caught her head bobbing. She straightened and looked around only to have her eyes grow heavy again.
Gideon would suggest to Mina that Elizabeth take a nap. If he suggested one to Elizabeth, he was afraid she would set out to prove she wasn’t tired. Her stubborn streak was as wide as Boston Harbor, but he couldn’t help but feel proud of her.
He wanted to write her father and fill him in on the details of the past three days. The letter he’d read a couple of weeks ago still raised his hackles. Couldn’t Mr. Garrett see the intelligent and compassionate daughter he had? Yes, she was overly flirtatious, but Gideon reasoned that had more to do with her upbringing than being a proverbial bad seed. It wasn’t his place to write Mr. Garrett, but he could encourage Mina to share some of the details.
A slight pressure on his right shoulder caused him to look down. Elizabeth slept, her head leaning into him. Gideon slowed the horse and avoided a rutted spot of road. Gideon attributed the warmth that radiated inside him to his memories of Ruth. If he was going to marry again, Elizabeth was not a candidate. She would not be happy with the meager lifestyle he could provide either as a preacher or a cobbler. As soon as he picked up the rest of his tools, his first project would be to fashion a new pair of shoes for the youngest Steward boy. When he’d returned this morning with his siblings, he’d been wearing rags tied around his feet.
Elizabeth sighed and slid deeper into his side. Memories of Ruth mingled with the warmth of Elizabeth by his side. He flipped the reins to move the horse a bit faster, suddenly less worried about Elizabeth’s need for sleep than the direction of his errant thoughts.
Elizabeth Garrett was the last woman he would ever consider entering into a relationship with.
Fourteen
Joanna Howell doesn’t deserve to catch Gideon. She’s as dull as ditchwater, and he’ll never be happy with her. Just because she bakes bread without burning it, he thinks she is bride material. “Oh, Mister Frost, how kind of you to drop by.” Of course, he didn’t drop by. The ninny nearly accosted him in the street. She’s hung the same sheet out every day this week, waiting for him to ride by. Bet she made a different pie each day, though.
So what if I haven’t mastered pies. I helped at Stewards for three days and didn’t burn a single thing. I made breakfast chocolate taste just like Aunt Mina’s—not that Aunt Mina lets me prepare hers. But does he notice me at all or compliment me? No. What about all the time I helped at Stewards? Not a word of praise. But “Oh, Joanna is such a sweet girl” has peppered more conversations than I’ve seasoned with spice.
Elizabeth gave the bread dough another punch. Ever since Gideon had compared her bread at yesterday’s dinner to the perfect loaf Miss Howell had given him last Monday, she’d wanted to punch something. Hadn’t her bread improved markedly in one month from the stones she’d baked the first time?
Turn, punch, turn, punch. Elizabeth turned and punched the dough again and again, each punch more forceful than the last. Aunt Mina praised her. Gideon had—
Crash.
The bowl she was going to set the kneaded dough to rise in tumbled to the floor as she gave the dough an extra exuberant punch. Elizabeth wiped her hands on her apron and bent to retrieve the bowl, shard by shard.
The back door opened. Gideon. Could he never catch her doing something right?
“Not another one of Mina’s bowls. You really must take more care.”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes before standing back up and adding the broken pieces to the rubbish bin. “I assure you I did not break the bowl on purpose. And before you lecture me, I will buy Aunt Mina a new bowl next time we go into Stoughton.” Elizabeth walked around Gideon to get the broom from its hook near the back door. And the other one I broke was already cracked.
“Might I suggest a wooden one next time?”
Elizabeth nodded. If she opened her mouth, she would say something she’d regret.
“The Howells asked that I dine with them at noon.”
Wonder how long Joanna begged her mother for the invitation? Elizabeth nodded, afraid to stop herself from biting her tongue.
“Where is Mina?”
Elizabeth pointed to the weaving room.
Gideon strode past the last of the pottery fragments and into the weaving room. Snippets of conversation floated across the hall as Elizabeth swept. She tried to ignore them. The last thing she wanted to hear was how kind Joanna was or how talented.
She emptied the last of the shards into the bin and set the dough to rise in a different bowl, then she dusted the flour off her old brown dress. Uglier than ever. No wonder he gave her no more notice than she did what’s-her-name the maid back home. She wiped the bits of dough and flour from the table and into the slop bucket. Gideon hurried past her, the door shutting behind him. She glared at his retreating form through the window.
I may as well be a maid for all the good it does me. She bit her lip, trying to stifle the thought that formed, but it continued to grow. What would he do if I wore the crimson gown?
Elizabeth squirmed on the wooden bench. Involuntarily, her hand raised to make sure her fichu was tucked into her bodice. She wished not for the first time that she’d worn her whitework one. Not only was it more opaque, it was also several inches longer. Her embroidered silk was not sufficiently long to crisscross over her chest without slipping.
When she had come downstairs this morning, Aunt Mina’s brows had risen into her hairline, but she’d remained silent on the subject of Elizabeth’s attire. Instead, she’d suggested they walk to church, as the day was mild for the first Sunday in March. By the time they arrived, not only was her dress covered in dust, but her slippers too—proving she should have worn her half boots and a less-conspicuous dress.
Gideon’s short perusal left his mouth set in a hard line, his expression matching the disgusted one he’d worn when the goat had been ill in her stall. From his seat behind the podium, he avoided eye contact with her the entire sermon.
Not a single woman looked at her dress with longing in her eyes. Most seemed indifferent or, like Gideon, pointedly ignored her. Mrs. Howell sniffed and turned away, lifting her nose. Joanna followed her mother’s lead. Mrs. Steward gave her only the briefest of smiles before turning down Elizabeth’s offer to help with the younger girls, saying they would muss her fine dress.
The only person who gave her anything near an admiring look was Mr. Butler, choosing a seat directly across from her on the men’s side of the aisle. He had been absent the last couple of weeks, and she hadn’t calculated his reaction into her plan. A shiver traveled up her spine when she caught him eyeing her again.
She followed h
is gaze to her hand fiddling with the scarf. As she dropped her hand to her lap, her finger caught on a loose thread, pulling the fichu out of the low collar.
Mr. Butler’s eyes took on a hungry look, the minister stuttered, and Gideon’s face reddened. Elizabeth looked down to see the swell of her left breast exposed.
She grabbed for the slippery silk and caught the edge, only to have the other end loosen and reveal her entire chest. The cleavage she’d been so determined to use to entice Samuel with months ago she now rushed to hide.
Shame at her impropriety crushed down on her shoulders as if the sheer fabric were chain mail. Humiliation burned her cheeks. Her face must be a shade matching her bodice, which felt as if it had shrunk three dress sizes. Her throat constricted, and she couldn’t swallow. Aunt Mina’s hand rested on her leg, offering a calming reassurance, but Elizabeth spent the rest of the meeting with her head bowed, concentrating on a knot in the floorboard.
When the congregation stood for the final hymn, Elizabeth slipped from the building.
A copse of trees north of the churchyard proved an adequate hiding place as the parishioners poured out of the church. Perhaps too adequate, as she caught pieces of conversation drifting out with the congregants.
“Poor Mina, to be saddled with such a niece.”
“You know, she was dressed like one of those theater girls I saw in Boston. Not one of them better than she should be.”
“The fabric was beautiful, but the low neckline—how did she keep them from popping right out?”
“Did you see Mr. Frost’s face? He was mortified. And to think he has to work where she lives. So dreadful.”
“Forget Mr. Frost. Did you see Mr. Butler? Mark my words, he will be after her like a fox in a henhouse. He won’t quit until—”
Tears filled Elizabeth’s eyes. She closed them and prayed for this nightmare to end. Would she ever learn?
Wagons and buggies rumbled over the packed earth, and children called their good-byes. A few more minutes and the churchyard would be empty. Then she would hurry home and burn the wretched dress.
Old leaves crunched as someone walked into the copse of trees. Her eyes flew open. Instead of finding Aunt Mina as she hoped, Mr. Butler stood not three feet away. Elizabeth’s heart pounded. The churchyard lay silent. Should she run?
“Ah, my dear, I see you waited for me.” He advanced a step, and Elizabeth flattened herself against a tree.
“Your aunt left with the Howells. She thought you already walked home.” He rested one hand on the trunk above her shoulder. “She didn’t see the bit of red flashing from behind this tree. Did you know in Spain they have bull fights and the matador waves a red cape to attract the bull?” He brought his other hand up and traced the line of the fichu with his finger.
Elizabeth tried to push him away but only succeeded in making the man’s lecherous grin widen. “Leave me alone.” The words were barely audible to her own ears.
“Alone? I think not.” His hand moved lower, dipping his fingertips into the opening between the silk layers, brushing skin no man had ever dared touch. “As I suspected. Smoother than silk.” He pulled the fichu from where it was tucked into the dress and replaced the cloth with further explorations.
Elizabeth hit his arm with all the force she used to beat Mina’s rugs. He chuckled as he removed his hand from her bodice and brought it to her cheek.
“So you want to make me beg?” His lips came down fast and hard, and her head slammed into the trunk. The rough bark dug into her back. Her hat, caught between the tree and her aggressor, slid at an odd angle. Mr. Butler yanked it from her head, but the hat pin refused to relinquish its hold, taking a chunk of hair with it. Elizabeth’s scream of protest became trapped inside her mouth and echoed through her head as he pinned her against the maple with the weight of his body and continued to press his mouth roughly over hers. Her hands, now caught between them, were of little use in fighting off his advances. She kicked and struggled, but he continued his assault. Demanding, degrading, and damning, the unrelenting kiss was unlike any she’d experienced. Revulsion filled her.
Fighting back with the only thing she had left, she bit down.
Mr. Butler reared back, blood pooling on his lip. “Why, you little—”
Slap! Elizabeth made quick use of her freed hand.
Expecting him to step back as a gentleman should, she did not anticipate the answering fist that connected with the side of her head. Pain radiated from the spot and obscured her vision, and she tried to take a breath and get the trees to stand still.
Pain sliced through her jaw as he roughly grabbed it and yanked her to face him. “No little doxy treats me that way.” He pinned her against the tree again, the bark snagging her hair and biting into her back again. His mouth swallowed her protests as his hands tugged at her skirts.
She pummeled him with her free hand, but his explorations continued.
She clawed at his face, and when her finger found his eye socket, he reared back with a roar.
The fabric at her shoulder ripped, the bodice and sleeve separating where he gripped it.
“You!” One fist connected with her face, and something sharp dug into her cheek. The second punch caught her in the side, the force of the blow sending her to her knees. The scream trapped inside her finally broke free, followed by others. She could feel the twigs digging into her hands as she looked up and saw his leg rear back. She closed her eyes before the kick landed.
She heard the sound of the blow but felt nothing.
Then another blow and a grunt.
She opened her eyes and saw not two but four legs. She pulled herself up, clinging to the tree, and saw Gideon’s fist connect with Mr. Butler’s nose.
Blood splattered her dress.
Pushing her hair out of her face, Elizabeth gagged and ran into the empty churchyard on wobbly feet. She should retrieve her hat and fichu. It wasn’t proper to walk down the street without them. The tears in her gown had left her shoulder and stays exposed. She crossed her arms in front of her, clutching her bodice together.
The sounds of the fighting carried from the trees. To forget the hat and run was the most sensible course, and so Elizabeth took it, hurrying out of the churchyard and away from the awful noise.
She would never wear the crimson gown again.
Father was right about her and the dress.
Fifteen
Gideon rubbed his midsection as the hoofbeats of Mr. Butler’s horse faded. He would have a nasty bruise. A bit of red caught his eye amid the twigs and moldering leaves.
Elizabeth’s hat. He picked up the lopsided thing, not sure if it could be repaired. Several strands of hair clung to the hat pin. A few feet away, the once-snowy neck scarf lay in two dirty pieces. He stuffed the ruined fichu into his pocket to dispose of later.
Gideon searched the grove and churchyard. Where was she? He needed to make sure she got home safely. If Butler found her now, more than a dress would be ruined.
How long had she struggled with Butler before he’d heard her scream?
He ran his hand down his face, glad no fist had connected with it.
What would he tell the reverend? They had been counting on Mr. Butler’s donation to help complete the building. Given the state of the lecher’s nose, Gideon doubted the donation would be forthcoming. The blame would fall on him.
Was it possible to be dismissed from a lay position?
Gideon moved slowly across the churchyard. Butler’s boot had connected more than once with his shins.
To the south, he spied a figure in a red dress hurrying down the road.
Gideon quickened his pace and caught up with her easily. “Your hat, I believe.”
Elizabeth let out a little squeak, snatched the hat from his hand, and held it to her chest
. Even with her head bowed, he saw a bruise forming. Her face hadn’t fared as well as his own. She didn’t look at him but increased her pace.
Gideon knew he must say something for Mina’s sake, if not Elizabeth’s. He took several long strides to catch up with her. Grabbing her elbow with more force than strictly necessary, he stopped her. “Just what happened?” The words came out guttural and low and harsher than he intended.
Elizabeth tried to shake off his hand. “Let me go. You are hurting me.” She tried to twist her arm out of his grasp.
He loosened his grip but didn’t let go. “Only if you talk to me.”
Elizabeth spun to face him. “Unhand me, then.” Tears mingled with the blood on her cheek. The bruises along her jawline and face seemed to grow as he watched. She kept one arm crossed in front of her, holding the ripped fabric in place, and shrugged him off with the hand holding the hat.
Gideon felt his face redden at the sight of her bare shoulder. He slipped off his coat and wrapped it around her, buttoning it under her chin.
Elizabeth’s face reddened, from anger or embarrassment Gideon couldn’t tell. Tears trailed unchecked down her cheeks. She clutched the rest of the coat closed and ducked her head to wipe her tears with her shoulder. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Gideon stepped back. Something about the contact was slightly disorienting. A tendril of hair blew across her face, the rest of her fallen locks trapped beneath the coat. Gideon’s hand itched to reach out and tuck the tendril behind her ear, but he fisted it to keep his hand firmly by his side. What was wrong with him? He was no better than Butler.
