No Ordinary Princess

by Pamela Morsi

  "And?"

  "And nothing. They ain't nobody knows him or even knows of him," she said. "And I swear I mentioned his name in front of every gossip in Topknot."

  "Maybe he doesn't live in Topknot," Tom sug­gested.

  "Maybe he don't live anywhere," she answered. "I asked Vella Murphy. She and her gals does laundry for nearly every single man in Burford Corners. He don't get his clothes washed. He ain't living in any of the hotels. Ain't nobody heard of him, except Prin­cess."

  "It don't sound right to me," Cedarleg said.

  "Nor me either," his wife agreed.

  "I'll mention it to Calhoun next time I see him. He's got a lot on his mind these days, but there ain't nothing as important to him as that little gal."

  "That's the truth."

  "If there's something amiss about this Gerald Crane, King will send the fellah packing faster than you can shake a stick," Cedarleg declared.

  "What if she really does love him?" Tom asked. "If you really care about her, you wouldn't want to stand in the way of her happiness."

  Ma considered the question for only an instant before she shook her head.

  "I don't think this one is for her," she said. "He's some fancy man from back East. Slicker than silk, he sounds like. That's not for Princess. She needs a steady, hardworking kind of man. One that could match her energy and good sense."

  "Princess needs someone like our Tom here," Cedarleg said.

  Ma nodded. "That's what I was thinking. You two would just hang right and tight together."

  " 'Course, Tom, the gal's a bit on the bossy side," he said. "Like as not she'd take to nagging you like ol' Ma here does me."

  "She's not all that bossy," Tom piped in.

  Both of them looked at him, surprised.

  "You've met her?" Ma asked.

  Tom hesitated only a moment. "Ah, no, no, I haven't actually met her. But of course I saw her at the Fourth of July picnic. She was the hostess after all. Everyone saw her."

  "Oh, yeah, that's right," Cedarleg said. "I'd forgot that you went to that."

  "That's where she met this Gerald Crane fellah," Ma pointed out. "Did you see him? She said they danced together most of the evening."

  "Ah no, no, I don't believe I noticed her dancing partner," Tom lied.

  Ma tutted. "I just wish somebody had," she said.

  "Now quit worrying," Cedarleg told her. "I'll speak with King, he'll get the lowdown on this fellah and it'll be all settled before this thing goes one bit further."

  Chapter 9

  His time was running out. With King Calhoun now home from St. Louis and Cedarleg determined to mention Gerald to him at their next meeting, Tom knew that his time was almost gone.

  Never in his furthermost imaginings had he con­sidered the idea that Cessy might know Ma and Cedarleg. After his time with Ambrose, Tom had learned all too well that the wealthy consorted with the wealthy. And even those who were new to money and position left their friends behind as they moved up.

  It was going to become difficult, if not impossible, to meet Cessy alone. He had to get her hooked, tied, and completely his or he was going to lose out al­together.

  He talked one of the other tool dressers into taking on his Sunday shift. A solitary picnic in a secluded romantic setting. A few kisses and caresses, maybe a little more. He'd get her to agree to a secret engage­ment. Or maybe they could even run off and wed. He'd asked Buddy Ruston, one of the roughnecks, recently wed, about what was required.

  "Just find you a preacher, have him say the words, pay him the three dollars and he files the papers," the fellow answered. "You thinking of taking on another mouth to feed?"

  Tom had only shrugged in answer. He wasn't taking on another mouth, he was going to marry a million-dollar oil well, with a really nice gal thrown into the bargain. A fellow couldn't ask for more than that.

  Which was why on a bright Sunday, with a world of worry still on his mind, Tom was whistling happily as he made his way across town to meet Cessy. The livery stable made a deep dent in his weekly pay, but Tom felt that he had to hire the finest-looking team they had as well as the smartest rig. Gerald would expect nothing less. Even if Cessy had stars in her eyes, she couldn't help but notice the fancy turnout.

  He'd driven by the back alley of the Palace, assur­ing himself that Calhoun's Packard was still parked there and that the old man was still snoring upstairs in the arms of the saloon's proprietor.

  Feeling safe and certain, he'd pulled right up into the Calhouns' porte cochere, just as if he belonged.

  He'd take her to the Shemmy Creek mouth, he decided. It was less than an hour's drive, but he doubted if many of the newcomers even knew that it existed. Shemmy Creek looked to be a small and inconsequential stream that meandered down Rough Tack Hill. In fact, just beneath the ground surface of the shallow stream ratt a near torrent of cool, very drinkable water. The place where the streams—both aboveground and below—merged to flow into the river was quiet, private, and obscured by hundred-year-old oaks, shady willows, and blooming star grass.

  It was close to the Methodist Indian Home. He certainly didn't want to take the chance of running into anyone he knew, but none of the students he knew when he lived there would still be around. And Reverend McAfee had been too old and feeble to follow him to Shemmy Creek when he was a boy.

  Yes, that's where he should take her, to his secret place. The place of sanctuary that he had run to the hundred times when he had run from the home. The one place in his childhood that he had somehow felt was his own.

  He knew that Cessy would love it as much as he did. It was a part of him and although he could never tell her that, she would know. She would feel it. He would make love to her there, this very afternoon. Tom smiled to himself. In his own special place he would make love to the one woman who could give him everything that he had ever wanted. The idea was far from unpleasant. And then he would ask her to be his wife.

  He ran his hand nervously over his breast pocket to assure himself that the tiny, gold-colored ring was still there. He'd paid two dollars for it at J.M. Nell General Merchandise. He probably could have gotten a better price bargaining with the foreign fellow who was engaged to Cessy's friend. But he couldn't risk Cessy finding out that it was not real gold. He intended to replace it as soon as he had control of his new wife's money. With any luck at all, that might be tomorrow.

  Gerald Crane would marry Cessy. And Tom, poor Tom Walker, would simply disappear from the face of the earth.

  Howard, the manservant whom he had seen on several occasions, hurried out to greet him as he secured the team.

  "Good morning, sir," the man greeted him defer­entially. "Miss Calhoun is receiving her guests in the sun parlor."

  Guests? Tom thought to himself. Had she pretended that she was spending the day with more people than just him? That was probably a good idea. Servants did talk. Let them think she went out with a chaper-one. It would give them more time, more privacy.

  Tom followed the man's directions through the receiving room, the main hallway, and across the main sitting room to the sun parlor. He had never actually been inside the house and he looked around now in a leisurely way, and with pleasure. The high-ceilinged rooms gave a feeling of space and coolness that was welcome in the middle of July. The walls were covered in high-quality embossed paper with a raised leaf design. The moldings and mop boards were wide planks of dark walnut, stained just slightly lighter than the floorboards.

  The halltree was mammoth, in gleaming cherry with marble inlay and a beveled mirror. But the parlor furniture was unfashionably overstuffed and looked comfortable and welcoming.

  There was an unassumingly livable feeling about the place. It was a mansion, like many he'd seen, but it had none of the ostentatious and intimidating qualities that he usually so admired. This house was a home and felt very much that way. It was Cessy's house, she'd said. That meant it was to be his. The wonder of it struck him with awesome clarity.

  With
silent admiration he stopped to caress a walnut pillar that was part of the open front parlor entryway.

  He, Tom Walker, the little part-breed orphan at the livery, would live in a house like this. Or rather Gerald, Gerald Crane would live here. He was well accustomed to such fine housing.

  An unexpected bitterness swelled up in him. A man could work, struggle, save, and scrape all his life and never see the inside of a house like this. For others it was merely part of a birthright.

  He remembered the first time he'd folded one of the cravats' silk neckties. The fabric so smooth and beautiful, it almost brought tears to his eyes just touching it. Later he saw Ambi cast it carelessly in the dust when it had become sweat-soaked and soiled on the parade grounds.

  "I'll never take it for granted," he whispered to the walnut pillar. Silently he vowed to be a good hus­band, a decent fellow, and to thank heaven everyday for the good fortune that was about to befall him.

  With those thoughts clearly in mind he hurried on to the sun parlor where his future wife, in point of fact his entire future, awaited him.

  As he stepped across the threshold of the room, the smile froze upon his lips. Cessy was not alone.

  Her friend, Muna Nafee, and the strange foreign fellow Maloof were in the room also.

  Cessy jumped to her feet and hurried to greet him, her hands outstretched in welcome.

  He took them into his own. In deference to the others in the room, he gave her fingers a slight squeeze of affection before raising her knuckles to his lips.

  "Good afternoon, Cessy," he said softly. Deliber­ately he kept his eyes upon her as he speculated upon the presence of the other couple.

  "Do you remember Muna and her fiancé?" Cessy asked.

  "Of course, I do," Tom insisted with a warm smile toward the other young lady. "It is wonderful to see you again, Miss Nafee. Afternoon Maloof."

  "You looking good today," the peddler com­mented. "Coat is perfect, like it just made for you."

  "That's because it was," Cessy announced with a warm laugh. "He has a tailor in Boston and refuses to wear fashions cut or stitched by anyone else."

  Tom's smile faltered. He tensed waiting for Maloof to show him to be a liar. He'd used the fib about the tailor to explain why a wealthy gentlemen like Gerald Crane would visit Cessy every evening in the same suit of clothes.

  Maloof appeared momentarily confused, as if he didn't quite understand what Cessy was saying.

  "It is fine, very fine," he said. "Some of the best I've seen."

  Cessy nodded. "Gerald has a real eye for quality."

  Tom smiled, schooling his expression, hoping he appeared modest. Not relieved. Thank heaven the peddler's command of the English language was so poor.

  Gratefully Tom accepted the offered chair and began the task of making polite conversation by commenting to Miss Muna on the superior afternoon weather.

  "Oh yes, it's perfect for a picnic," the young woman told him.

  There was a way in which Miss Nafee looked at Tom, a way in which she looked too closely at him, that made him cautious. Cessy's best friend, it seemed, neither liked or trusted him. But she ap­peared to be trying to hide the fact.

  "I've invited Muna and Maloof to go with us," Cessy said. "Two couples together is always fun."

  "Always," Tom agreed with as much warmth as he could manage.

  "Did you have a picnic spot in mind?" Muna asked him. Her tone suggested that she was not about to approve of his answer.

  "No," Tom lied admirably. "A place by the river, I'd thought, with lots of tall trees and cool shade."

  Cessy nodded. "I know just the place," she said. "I discovered it myself, and it is perfect for a July picnic."

  Tom reached over to take her hand" in his own. "Any place will be perfect as long as I am with you, Miss Calhoun," he said, softly.

  To his surprise, Cessy laughed in his face. He glanced toward Muna and caught her rolling her eyes. Had he overplayed his hand? The young woman and her best friend were close as sisters, Maloof had told him. Would one sister advise against a suitor that she didn't trust?

  "I told you he was dangerous," Cessy said, at­tempting to make a joke out of his compliment.

  "Soft words and secret meetings." Muna tutted in disapproval. "I don't know how they do things back East, but here, Mr. Crane, a lady's reputation could be in jeopardy."

  Tom had no reply to that. Muna Nafee was a threat, he decided. She had Cessy's ear. He could only hope that he had Cessy's loyalty.

  With sophisticated ease, he changed the subject.

  "I need to exchange the rig I've hired," he said. "It's a two-seater."

  "Oh, we can just take the surrey," Cessy told. "It's very sturdy and my team is easy to handle."

  Tom smiled pleasantly, thinking unpleasantly of the money he'd shelled out for the rented vehicle.

  "Then all else required for this picnic is food," he said. "I trust you ladies have taken care of that."

  "Overwhelmingly," Cessy assured him. "My cook has made up a basket large enough to feed all your Rough Riders, and Muna's mother has sent a verita­ble Syrian feast for us."

  "Then shall we proceed to our picnic, Miss Cal­houn."

  Giggling, Cessy rose to her feet and accepted his arm. Laughing and exuberant, Tom and Cessy were a sharp contrast to the other couple. Muna still ap­peared suspicious and uneasy. And the peddler was keeping whatever thoughts he had to himself. The two couples made their way back through the house toward the porte cochere.

  As if everything had been settled perfectly before his arrival, Tom found his own sleek, expensive rig moved aside and the striped-awning surrey hitched to a sleek, smoke-gray pair.

  "I would be happy to return your rig to the livery, Mr. Crane,” Howard offered.

  Tom wished he could accept. He wanted his money back, but he'd hired the team as Tom Walker. He couldn't allow Miss Calhoun's employee to return them for Gerald Crane.

  "Please don't concern yourself," Tom told him, feigning expansiveness.

  With a good deal of feminine laughter, the baskets were loaded up and Tom found himself driving with Cessy at his side. She looked downright attractive, he thought, in a dark blue serge skirt and crisp linen blouse. Her high collar was modestly pinned with a carved ivory cameo. Her wide-brimmed straw hat was trimmed with only the thinnest braid of pink and blue ribbons. He smiled across at her, rapidly trying to reformulate his plan for the day. Obviously he had miscalculated. He'd thought her so enamored that she could be easily lured out alone. He must try never to underestimate her intelligence again.

  Cessy responded jovially to a teasing comment from Muna. The young women apparently intended to chatter among themselves, ignoring their escorts. Tom was not about to let that happen.

  He leaned close to Cessy, whispering so that only she would hear.

  "I suppose it was very dastardly of me to try to get you alone, Miss Calhoun."

  Cessy blushed in that way that he found so appeal­ing. The young lady was incapable of coyness or deception.

  "I ... I thought that we . . ."

  He grasped her hand in his own and squeezed it lovingly. "I know," he assured her in a whisper. "I have been rushing your fences. It is very good, perhaps that you force us to step back a bit."

  "Oh Gerald, I didn't mean—" she began.

  He hushed her with a look in the direction of the silent couple in the seat behind them. And then he smiled at her, warmly.

  "Just a fun picnic for four,” he said. "As long as I am by your side, I will be content."

  She laughed.

  He would take it slow and easy today, he decided. If an opportunity for a more intimate situation presented itself, he would take it. But he wouldn't press her now. He'd let her make the next move.

  The drive out of town was pleasant. Cessy seemed quite familiar with the local roads and in her no-nonsense way directed him away from the thorough­fares most consistently used by the trucks and wagons on their way to the oil fields. />
  The mid-July sun beat down on the deeply rutted, red dirt road before them. The prairie grass on either side of the road was so pale a green that it bordered on yellow, dotted here and there with purple paint­brush or dandelions. The rattling wheels of the surrey left dusty clouds in their wake as they drove.

  The roads were familiar to Tom and became more so as they traveled. As each mile passed he became increasingly uncomfortable with the proximity of the Indian School. He couldn't quite shake his anxiety. Mentally he harangued himself. Did he think that Reverend McAfee was still looking for him after eight years? Was the old man going to run out to the road, grab him by the ear, and drag him back to that livery stable for the rest of his life? It was a foolish fear and he was foolish to waste a moment of his afternoon with such concern. McAfee was probably long dead and the school a splintery ruin filled with the ghosts of unhappy little orphan boys.

  "Take this turn to the west up here," Cessy di­rected. "It looks like little more than a wagon track, but it's quite passable."

  Tom was jolted. He swallowed his surprise and followed the road she'd indicated. He couldn't quite believe it, but he knew that Cessy was directing him down the little sparsely traveled path that led to the mouth of Shemmy Creek. She knew his secret place.

  "Where on earth are we headed?" he heard Muna ask from the back.

  "It's a beautiful place I found,” Cessy answered. "There is a little creek over there along that tree line," she said, indicating the woods just ahead. "There is hardly any water in it at all, but it's wonderfully cool and very shady. I thought it would make a marvelous picnic spot."

  "We trust your judgement in the matter com­pletely," Tom assured her. "But how in the world did you ever find it?"

  "I'm out this way quite a lot," she told him. "At least I usually am. Lately I . . ."

  "Lately she's been spending too much time think­ing about a certain young man," Muna finished for her.

  Cessy appeared genuinely embarrassed by her friend's tone.

  Tom decided to make her friend's ill-disguised displeasure work in his favor. He feigned comic surprise.

  "A young man? So I have competition for your interest, Miss Calhoun? I am crushed."