by Pamela Morsi
He was standing at the end of the porch on one of the garden steps. He was staring up at the house and the look on his face, caught unaware, was somehow guarded, critical. But when he glanced toward her he smiled so warmly, Princess wondered if she had imagined the other expression.
He was dressed elegantly in a pin-checked linen coat, dark alpaca vest and trousers, and a muslin shirt bedizened fashionably with large blue polka dots. Although the bowtie would have been the most typical neckwear for the costume, he wore a hemstitched Windsor in a four-in-hand twist. No billboard cigar advertisement could have looked more elegant or attractive.
"Mr. Crane,” she repeated his name somewhat breathlessly and held out her hands to him.
He stepped forward immediately, his eyes devouring the sight of her. He took her fingers into his own and raised her knuckles to his lips, and then closed his eyes as if savoring the taste of her. When he opened them again to gaze at her once more, Princess wondered if he could feel her trembling.
"Mr. Crane?" he asked, in a soft, masculine whisper. "I thought we were on a first-name basis, Cessy."
Princess blushed and giggled. She heard herself and was momentarily chagrined at how young and silly she sounded. She pulled herself together. He was her true love, she felt certain. But she didn't want to discourage him in the leanings of his heart into thinking that she was a mindless nitwit.
"I also believed that we had progressed from the formalities," she told him. "But of course I wondered, as you felt it necessary to remain on the porch as if I might not see you."
He smiled down into her eyes. His own were so warm and brown and sparkling with inner fire as he teased her. "A gentleman can never be sure of the heart of a lady," he said. "To take such for granted is to court disaster. And I would much prefer to court you."
Princess felt the warmth stealing into her cheeks once more. But it was a heightened color brought on more by pleasure than discomfiture.
"I am so glad you came to visit this evening," she admitted to him. "I've . . . I've been thinking about you all day."
Gerald raised an eyebrow and gave her a long perusal. "You have been much on my mind, too. But, dear Cessy, you must not tell a man such things."
"Why not? It's the truth."
"Young ladies do not often tell their suitors the truth," he said.
"That is totally ridiculous," Princess declared adamantly.
He nodded in tacit agreement. "Perhaps so, but it is how the game is played."
"I have no interest in playing games," she said firmly.
"Not even the game of the heart?" he asked, his tone smooth and alluring.
Princess found that her breathing was shallow and the blood was pounding in her veins.
"If I were to . . . care about someone, the very least that I can offer him is the truth," she told him, with as much directness and purpose as she could manage.
She watched a strange expression appear in his eyes. In an instant it was gone.
"Let's walk, shall we?" he suggested. "It seems so rude to keep a lady standing, and yet I do realize how untoward it would be for the two of us to sit on the porch unchaperoned."
Princess hadn't even realized that they were still standing. It was very difficult for her to keep her mind from running off into her fantasy. She knew that somehow he was her true love. But he had certainly not yet declared himself and she might well frighten him off if she continued to speak so boldly.
"A turn around the garden would be acceptable," she said, accepting his arm. Then with a light chuckle she added. "Although the term garden is not a particularly apt one."
He smiled politely and offered his arm. She laid her hand upon it formally and allowed herself to be led down the steps.
"It takes time to grow gardens," he told her. "One must gauge their progress in years and seasons, rather than weeks and months."
"You are quite right," she agreed. "We've only just completed the house. The garden will be another matter entirely."
Princess caught Gerald glancing at the house critically once more.
"What do you think of the house?" she asked him.
Momentarily Gerald looked almost guilty, as if he had been caught at some horrible social faux pas. Then he visibly relaxed as he answered.
"In truth," he told her. "I am somewhat surprised at his choice of dwelling."
"Oh?"
"It's not particularly large," he pointed out.
"It has eight rooms," she told him. "And they are just for my father and me. The servants' quarters are separate."
"I only thought," Gerald said, "that a man of King Calhoun's wealth and position would want a mansion of the style of Mr. Rockefeller or Mr. Carnegie."
"Have you been to the camps?" she asked.
Gerald appeared momentarily taken aback. "Why, why yes, I've seen them."
"The workers, our workers, live mostly in tents. The best are half-walled with plank flooring," she said.
"Yes, they do live quite . . . modestly."
"I grew up in oil camps. I grew up living modestly. I cannot imagine that my father and I would ever have need to eat better, dress better, or require more room than we do now."
"But surely when building a house, one tends to think in terms of generations rather than the current requirements," Gerald said.
"I was thinking of the future," she assured him. "The house is small enough for me to take care of myself. It's nice having help, but when the boom moves on, as it always does, there may not be many wives who are interested in being day help. And in terms of generations ..."
Momentarily her thoughts turned dreamy.
"The house is big enough to raise a family," she said with certainty. "Someday . . . someday I would want a husband of my own. He will share this house with me and . . . and our little ones."
She looked up at him then and saw something indefinable in his eyes. Princess realized she had spoken far too frankly. Most gentlemen would not be at all appreciative of an unfashionably strong-minded woman who could take complete charge of her own life and those around her and who found it impossible to give over that duty to anyone, even the man she hoped to marry.
Her cheeks flaming, Princess couldn't meet his gaze. What must he think of her? Was that pity in his gaze? Did she appear to him to be a mannish old maid?
Suddenly she was wary. He laid his hand upon her own and gave the knuckles just the slightest squeeze of comfort. His action surprised her and warmed her.
"It is good for a woman to know what she wants and go after it," he said. "I think it makes it more likely that she will realize her dreams."
"They are frivolous dreams," she suggested with some embarrassment.
"Not at all," he whispered. "I would envy such a lucky man who would share this house and . . . little ones with you."
She looked up into his eyes then. Her heart was pounding like a drum. There was something so compelling about this man, so forceful in his personality. If he asked her to jump through hoops at a traveling circus, she would immediately attempt to do so. Such charisma could be as dangerous as drowning water. Still, looking up at him, loving him, she waded right in.
"You don't have to envy anybody," she told him breathlessly.
He looked at her a long moment, obviously waiting, considering, as around Princess the treacherous waters of the heart swept ominously. Then with the very warmest of smiles, he threw her a life preserver.
"The style of the house is stark and simple," he said, adeptly changing the subject. "The current architectural fashion in the east is quite ornate."
Princess gratefully took the offered moment to regain control of herself. Without his intervention, she feared that in another moment she might well have been dropping to her knees and begging him to marry her.
"You mean all that busy gingerbread scrollwork? It's not for me," she said. "I always imagine that I would have to whitewash that ornamentation myself."
"Yourself?" he asked. "C
ertainly the lady of the house would never have cause to whitewash. Or are you one of the Janes?"
His reference to the social organization dedicated to the betterment of the lives of working women captured her attention.
"I am not a Jane, of course," she said. "But I believe strongly in the purpose they put forth. Even if women are allowed the vote, they can never achieve true freedom until they have viable options for employment in society."
"Oh? You would put women to work then?"
"Economic necessity puts women to work," she answered. "And they must have choices beyond domesticity and indecency."
Gerald nodded slowly as if taking it all in. It was important that he understand how she felt. She loved him already, but she needed for him to appreciate the causes that drew her.
"So you convinced your father to build a house as if his daughter must clean it herself?" he asked.
"I built my house in a way I thought would most benefit me and the people that I know,” she said.
"You built your house?"
She nodded. "Daddy said that I could have whatever I wanted."
He looked up at the structure once more.
"I wanted something that the rig builders could put together," she explained.
"The rig builders?"
"The men who do carpentry work in the oil fields," she said. "Most are not skilled carpenters, but they are good with their hands and understand lumber."
"So these rig builders constructed your house?"
She nodded. "They put up the frame and I supervised the work. The pipe fitters installed the plumbing. Drilling crews and pumpers got running water into the house. And laborers of every stripe and trade helped inside and out to put it together. It is really a house built by Royal Oil."
Gerald eyed the house even more critically.
"Why not simply hire true carpenters and an architect?" he asked. "Didn't your father's workers have enough work to do out on those hundred rigs on the edge of town?"
"They came here on their off shift. No one was forced to come, although everyone who did was paid well. I felt that the workers will be wanting to build houses for their own families eventually. A house like this one will be within the realm of possibility for the most frugal and hardworking of our laborers. I thought that being a part of the construction of this house would give them some experience as well as some dream for which to aim."
"You sound almost socialist in your views, Cessy," he said.
She shook her head. "No, not really," she answered. "I am quite in step with Horatio Alger. I do believe that if you took all the Standard Oil millions and parceled them out to each and every man in the oil business, robber baron and rig worker alike, by the end of the year men like Rockefeller, my father, Josh Cosgen, and Harry Sinclair would have the bulk of it and the workers in the fields would continue to 'live modestly.'"
"So we are predestined to our financial state?"
"Not entirely," she explained. "A man born lame will never dance with greatness. Just as a child born into a family whose heritage is poverty and ignorance will not easily find the road to prosperity and privilege. But if the man has talent, drive, and interest he might choreograph the ballet. And if the poor child is given encouragement and direction he may ultimately be able to give to his parents some of those things that they were not able to give to him."
He looked at her with curiosity and interest.
"You have really thought about this, haven't you?"
Princess nodded. "I believe that we must do the best we can with the gifts and opportunities that we are given. If we do that, we often will move up in the world at least to some degree. It takes a great stroke of good fortune for a poor child like my father to become a wealthy man. It doesn't happen that often. Many of the workers on the rigs were once just as poor, and they will probably never become wealthy. But they can perhaps do better than they are doing now. I believe that they will do better than they are doing now. And if my modest house can give them some incentive to do so, then it suits me even better than a huge manse."
Gerald seemed to be marveling at her. "You are so unexpected, Cessy," he told her. "So unlike I thought you would be."
Princess bit her lip nervously. "I am strong-minded, everyone says so. Are you disappointed?" she asked quietly.
"Oh no," he said. "Not at all."
His words were so soft, so alluring, Princess felt the undertow surging once more.
"Perhaps we should move back to the porch," she suggested. "The sun is already set and it is far too dark to see anything in the garden."
"But that is the point, isn't it?" Gerald asked. "If we are walking in a garden so dark that nobody can see, then we obviously are both hoping that I'll steal a kiss."
Princess blushed, but honestly adored his teasing repartee. It was such a new and exciting game, even if she wasn't all that sure how to play it.
"I do not believe that larceny will be necessary, Gerald," she told him. "I am only too happy to give you all the kisses you desire."
"All the kisses I desire? Ooooh, Cessy, are you becoming a temptress?"
"What a novel idea," she answered. "A temptress. I like the sound of that. Among my classmates at Miss Thorogate's College in St. Louis, I was voted Student Most Likely to End up a Domineering Spinster."
Princess was embarrassed by her hasty confession.
Her years at school were not, to her mind, an unqualified success. Young ladies of good family or good fortune were taught the vagaries of proper etiquette and basics of elegant conversation so they could be appropriate wives for gentlemen of the upper classes. The words had never been spoken aloud, but it was her belief that her father had sent her to St. Louis with the hope that she would find a suitable young man to marry. It had simply never happened. In a school of twenty-six well-heeled, privileged females, she had not been the plainest or the poorest. But she was without doubt the least concerned with the importance of elevating her social position. Each time a gentleman made her acquaintance, he was at the same time being introduced to twenty-five more preferable choices.
Princess had not felt disappointed. She had been waiting for her true love, and it was clear to her that he was not one of the gentlemen in St. Louis.
Gerald stopped walking and turned to her inquisitively. "You think of yourself as domineering, Cessy?"
His brow was furrowed and his gaze intense as he stared down at her. Princess felt the flush of embarrassment steal into her cheeks once more. She had made her peace with the reality of herself. Too many years of her youth had been wasted wanting to be someone else. She was exactly the woman that God had intended her to be. She was learning to accept that. She wanted her true love to be able to do the same.
"When I look in my mirror I see a very ordinary female looking back," she told him. "But, in truth, I do not believe that the mirror tells all. God gave me gifts of energy and leadership. I would be failing in my duty not to use them, and there is a whole world around me that seems to require my constant attention."
Gerald was silent for a long moment.
"The mirror is not the best judge of a woman," he agreed quietly. "It only reflects the most desultory observation."
"Many women would then ask how on earth are they to determine their worth," she pointed out, inflecting a tone of teasing into the question.
He stepped closer. So close that she need only lean slightly in his direction to press against his chest. The warmth of his nearness enveloped her. The scent of his shaving soap was masculine and enticing. She began to tremble.
"Look into my eyes, Cessy," he whispered. "Is the woman you see there not so very extraordinary?"
She did look up into those unfathomable dark eyes for an instant, but she saw no woman at all. And then he turned his head and brought his lips down upon her own.
Chapter 6
Cedarleg was certainly right in his prediction about his wife. Sadie Pease, known by one and all simply as Ma, should hav
e been extremely unhappy about sharing their living space with a young rig worker she'd never met. But in fact she did take Tom in like a son. She fussed over him. She nagged at him. And she kept his clothes clean and his food hot.
Ma was a short, round little woman. She had never met a stranger. And she loved a good joke. Once she heard one, she told it again and again. She worked with the efficiency of a dynamo. And she did it with a light heart.
The tool pusher's living quarters consisted of a canvas tarp that hung over a pitched frame. It had a pine plank floor and was half walled on three sides. Mosquito netting was hung in the "eaves" and across the front "door." It had an appearance reminiscent of a house, but without much of the protection from weather or privacy that such a structure usually afforded.
Tom's army camp in Cuba had not been quite as spartan or primitive, but Ma seemed to take it all in stride.
"I raised three children in places worse than this," she told Tom proudly. "They was ever' day clean and each one went to school through the sixth grade. I don't require much finery to live. My man's in the oil business and he's dragged me from pillar to post since the day we wed. And if there's anything that I've learned, it's that as soon as you've fixed up a place to really suit you, you're going to have to leave it behind."
Ma cackled at one of her favorite stories. "As soon as you've fixed up a place to really suit you, you're going to have to leave it behind," she repeated.
There was nothing temporary or campish about the way Ma and Cedarleg lived. She'd made a home under the tarp and it was in every way as warm and welcoming as any fine house Tom had ever visited. In many ways more so than the great mansions of Ambrose Dexter and his friends.
Each evening when they arrived from work her floor would be scrubbed to gleaming. Dishes would be set upon the plank table and heaping mounds of mouth-watering food would be hot and ready to eat.
She also kept Tom's courting clothes, as she called them, brushed and ready to go. But she made it clear that she had no high hopes for his future with a Miss Cessy Prin.
"A Burford Corners girl will never do for you," she told him plainly. "She'll be wanting you to settle here, and when a oil worker chooses to settle he's likely to starve."
