Firmin snorted softly, but Mack chose to ignore him. He ambled up the center aisle to the front benches. Tobis and Ethel Adelman sat next to the aisle on the left, with Otto Hildreth on their far side. They didn’t seem inclined to move, so he plopped onto the end of the right-hand bench next to Saul Sandburg and his wife, Amelia. The couple wore their Sunday best, the same way he had, and it pleased Mack. He greeted both of them with a smile and gave Saul a firm handshake.
Sandburg tugged at his collar and worked his lips back and forth as if he had food stuck in a tooth, the picture of a man who wanted to be somewhere else. But Mrs. Sandburg sat snug against her husband’s side, her hands curled around his forearm, with a content smile lighting her face. Why had the Sandburgs come? They had to be in their midforties already, married for more than twenty years, with four children at home. What could Miss Grant teach them about marriage that they didn’t already know?
He glanced across the aisle to the Adelmans. They’d gotten married three or four years ago. If he remembered right, Mrs. Adelman was the daughter of a friend of a second cousin to Tobis’s mother. Tobis had bragged up and down the streets about the city girl he’d hooked, as if he’d won some sort of contest instead of being lucky enough to have folks arrange a bride for him. Mack couldn’t honestly say he’d ever seen Ethel Adelman smile in Tobis’s presence. Those two could probably use some tips from Miss Grant on improving their marriage. But where was Miss Grant?
Mack glanced at the pendulum clock tick-ticking on the wall. Six twenty-five. Shouldn’t she be here by now? Somebody’d come and readied the church for the class. The sanctuary was well lit, all twelve lanterns glowing from their spots on the painted walls, and the space was warm with the potbelly stove blazing from the back corner. Nearly everyone who’d signed up for Thursday was here, so they hadn’t gotten confused about having a class tonight. All they needed was the teacher.
He cleared his throat, and people on both sides of him jumped. He smoothed his mustache, hiding his smile. “I wonder what’s keeping Miss Grant.”
Firmin laughed, the sound echoing from the rafters. “She’s prob’ly still wore out from last night’s dancin’.”
Tobis Adelman turned sideways on the bench. “Where was there some dancin’?”
“At Athol’s. A bunch of us had a real good time last night.”
The hair on the back of Mack’s neck stood up. Before he could question Firmin, the church door opened. A cold breeze whisked up the aisle and made the lanterns flicker. Miss Grant, Mrs. Bingham, and Sheriff Thorn came in. The sheriff pushed the door closed behind them, and Mrs. Bingham placed a thick brown folder on a bench. While the women removed their wraps, Sheriff Thorn bounced a serious look across everyone seated.
“S’posed to be eight folks here tonight. Who’re we missin’?”
“Dunno,” Firmin said.
Mrs. Bingham picked up the folder and opened it. She began calling names, the way a teacher took roll, and like obedient schoolchildren, they raised their hands when their names were called. “Vern O’Dell?”
Firmin poked a plug of chew in his lip. “Vern ain’t here.”
The sheriff frowned. “Firmin, take that outta your mouth. This ain’t a barn, it’s a church.” Firmin grumbled but obeyed. Sheriff Thorn bobbed his head at Miss Grant. “You go ahead an’ get started. I saw Vern lollygaggin’ outside Kettering’s place. I’ll fetch him for you.” He stomped outside, letting in another whoosh of cold air.
Mrs. Bingham seated herself at the rear of the chapel across the aisle from Firmin, and Miss Grant scurried to the front as if propelled by the breeze. She stepped up on the dais with a little hop, placed the folder on the podium, and then turned a tight smile on the group. “Good evening.”
“Good evening,” they all echoed, except for Tobis, who’d folded his arms over his chest and glared at the ceiling. His wife bumped him. He grunted and growled out, “Evenin’.”
Miss Grant opened the folder, and from Mack’s spot, he got a good view of the dark-brown leather. He’d never been a big fan of brown. The color of dirt. But Miss Grant wore a brown dress, a shade darker than her hair and a shade lighter than her eyes. Suddenly brown didn’t seem so plain anymore.
“This evening’s focus will be on commonsense etiquette, which is essentially manners.” She stepped beside the podium, linked her hands against her skirt, and lifted her chin. She’d probably stood that way to recite poems when she was a little girl. “It has been said that manners make the man. Manners are more than a list of rules. They are behaviors that help define a person’s character. Guarding one’s conduct is a way of showing respect, and respectfulness is always in fashion. Let’s begin by discussing the various ways a gentleman shows his intended that he respects and values her.”
She moved behind the podium again and placed her finger on the top page. “A gentleman will never reach for a lady’s hand but will wait for her to offer it. A gentleman always tips his hat to a lady in passing. A gentleman always opens doors for—”
The church door banged open. Sheriff Thorn came in, escorting Vern by the collar of his jacket. “Brung your last pupil, Miss Grant.” He gave Vern a little push.
The wiry, red-haired rancher stumbled forward several feet, then turned and glared at the sheriff. “I could o’ got here on my own.”
“Just makin’ sure.” Sheriff Thorn touched the brim of his hat, nodded at the ladies, and strode out. The slam of the door rattled the building.
Vern stayed in the middle of the aisle, his face as red as his hair.
Miss Grant cleared her throat. “Please have a seat, Mr. O’Dell, and I shall review what you missed.”
He took one sideways step and plopped down.
Everyone shifted their focus to Miss Grant again.
She repeated all she’d said before, checked her notes, and drew a breath. “A gentleman always opens doors for a lady. A gentleman assists a lady from a carriage by taking her hands, not her waist.” Pink tinged her cheeks. She kept her head low. “A gentleman offers his arm when he and a lady go for a stroll. A gen—”
“What’s a stroll?” Firmin lobbed the question with the same force that a cowboy flung a lasso.
Mack started to tell him to hush, but Miss Grant spoke first.
“A stroll is a leisurely walk. You might stroll up the street or through a park. The purpose of strolling is to enjoy one another’s company.”
Firmin laughed. “You can cross that’un off your list. We don’t got a park.”
Abigail frowned. “Don’t have a park.”
“I know. An’ if I come to town, it’s to shop at Mack’s or the mercantile or get me somethin’ to eat at Athol’s restaurant. I got a ranch to run. I don’t have time to stroll.”
Vern and Tobis murmured their agreement.
Miss Grant’s cheeks splotched pink. “When your work is done for the day, and the sky is beginning to fade from blue to pink, your wife may very well wish to enjoy a stroll around your ranch grounds with you. As a gentleman, you should offer her your arm. Please remember it.”
Firmin snickered, but he hushed when Mack shot him a glare.
Mrs. Bingham got up and moved closer to Firmin, who scooted an equal distance away. Mack growled under his breath. Maybe he should have sat by Firmin after all. The rancher leaned against the wall, propped his ankle on his opposite knee, and grinned at Miss Grant.
“Go ahead, ma’am. I’m listenin’.”
Miss Grant, still pink cheeked, glanced at her paper again. She swallowed, lifted her gaze, and seemed to focus on the window above the church doors. “A gentleman never interrupts a lady when she is speaking.”
Mack covered his mouth with his finger to hold back a chuckle. That advice was well timed.
“A gentleman does not resort to fisticuffs to settle a disagreement. He does not brag. He chews with his mouth closed. He habituall
y uses please when making a request and thank you when the request has been met.”
The list went on for quite a while, and though some of the rules seemed a little picky, Mack agreed with a lot of what she said. Some manners—such as “A gentleman controls his temper”—came straight from God’s Word. He hoped Firmin was awake in the back row. Miss Grant was almost preaching a sermon.
After a half hour of listening, some people started fidgeting, the same way they did midway through Preacher Doan’s sermons. Miss Grant must have noticed, because she paused, bit down on her lower lip, and sent a slow look across the audience.
“This seems a good place to stop and practice a bit of what I’ve presented.” She gestured to a little table and two chairs tucked at the corner of the dais. “Who would like to demonstrate the proper way to escort and seat a lady at the dinner table?”
Mrs. Sandburg looked hopefully at Saul, but he pinched his lips and sat as stiff and still as a stone. Mrs. Adelman looked aside instead of at her husband. Vern shifted his feet against the floor, a sound like sandpaper on a board. Otto seemed to be trying to drill a hole through Miss Grant’s middle with his steely glare. Mack decided not to look at Firmin. He was probably asleep.
Miss Grant stood next to the podium with her fingers clasped. She seemed lonely. Helpless. Forlorn. The way he’d felt eleven years ago when people turned their noses up at his family.
Sympathy propelled him from the bench. “I would.”
Abigail
Abigail’s heart fluttered. She’d expected Mr. and Mrs. Sandburg to volunteer. Although Mr. Sandburg hadn’t smiled once, he’d kept his gaze aimed on her and appeared as attentive as his wife. Mr. Cleveland’s offer touched her deeply but also made her very nervous.
Her lips trembled, making it difficult to smile. “Thank you, Mr. Cleveland.”
Mr. Chapman chortled. She risked a glance and discovered him smirking. Her nervousness increased. She aimed a pleading look at Mrs. Bingham. “Ma’am, would you like to…”
Mrs. Bingham rose, but she shook her head. “No, thank you, Miss Grant. You go ahead and demonstrate with Mr. Cleveland. When you’re finished, perhaps Firmin and I will attempt to emulate you.” With a determined stride, she crossed to Mr. Chapman and sat next to him. “Pay attention, now, Firmin.”
The rancher coughed into his hand, but he sat up and turned his scowl to the front of the church.
Mr. Cleveland stood beside his bench, fingertips in his pockets, shoulders high. A boyish, embarrassed pose. He’d volunteered, but he seemed riddled with apprehension. She should put him at ease. And she would, as soon as she convinced her stomach to stop jumping.
She forced a little laugh and stepped down from the dais. “Perhaps, before we go to the table, I might prevail upon you to demonstrate the art of strolling?” A walk around the church circumference might settle both of their nerves.
A relieved smile broke across his face. “That’s fine, Miss Grant.” He yanked his right hand from his pocket and extended his elbow.
Swallowing an anxiety-induced giggle, she slipped her hand into the bend of his arm. She involuntarily jolted. She’d held Linus Hartford’s arm dozens of times, but Linus’s forearm had not prepared her for the feel of Mr. Cleveland’s firm arm. Tendons stood out like rope, his flesh taut beneath her fingers even through layers of fabric. She battled another giggle and cleared her throat to control it. She braved a glance at his face. “Mr. Cleveland, a gentleman always leads.”
Twenty-Three
Abigail
Mr. Cleveland nodded and guided her toward the dais. At the front of the church, he angled her to the right and they moved to the north wall. She deliberately didn’t look at their audience, but she sensed them following their progress, the way everyone had watched her and Linus glide around the dance floor during her betrothal party. Her stomach whirled, much the way it had when he’d spun her in a promenade. She squashed all thoughts of Linus.
Mr. Cleveland turned right again and led her along the entire length of the wall. He kept a leisurely pace, tempering his stride to match her shorter one. As they moved beneath the lanterns, light fell on his dark hair. The oil he’d used to tame the thick strands into place shone like flashes of silver. Would moonlight bring out that same shimmer?
At the back of the church, he turned and moved toward the center aisle. She anticipated taking the aisle to the front and prepared herself for another turn, but he passed the aisle and went instead to the south wall. They strolled past Mr. Chapman and Mrs. Bingham, and to her surprise, Mr. Chapman seemed to study them with real interest. His change in attitude encouraged her, and she couldn’t resist giving Mr. Cleveland a genuine smile. Her chest went fluttery again when he returned it with one of his own.
When they reached the front of the church, she experienced a touch of disappointment that the stroll had to end. But the feeling whisked away when he took her hand and assisted her onto the dais. He stepped up beside her and placed his hand gently on her lower spine.
“Are you ready for dinner, Miss Grant?” His tone held a hint of teasing, but his fervent blue eyes held something completely alien to amusement.
She gulped. A jumble of strange emotions vied for prominence. Why hadn’t Mrs. Bingham offered to participate in this playacting that was beginning to seem far too real?
“Miss Grant?”
She gave a little jolt. Her students were watching. She had to continue. “Yes. Yes, I’m ready.”
His broad, warm palm—firm, possessive, welcome—guided her to the table. He pulled out a chair, and she squelched another giggle as she slid into the seat. He rounded the table and sat across from her. She hadn’t requested tableware because she intended to dedicate an entire class to table manners next week, so there was little they could do except gaze at each other. If they began such an activity, she might not have enough wits to continue the class.
She turned sideways in her chair and faced the audience. “Mr. Cleveland has done a fine job of demonstrating how to stroll, how to assist a lady from one level to another, and how to seat a lady at a table. Let’s applaud him for his attention this evening.” She patted her palms together more enthusiastically than the observers, but the firm contact chased away the strange web that had wrapped itself around her. She stood.
“Since Mr. Cleveland has brought me to the table, perhaps I will take this opportunity to share a few dining manners before we have the next couple practice.” She hurried to the podium and retrieved her notes about dining protocol. “I shall begin with the art of mastication.”
Every man in the room, with the exception of Mr. Cleveland, burst into laughter.
Abigail banged her fist on the podium. “Quiet. Quiet yourselves, now.”
“She said to hush up.”
At Mr. Cleveland’s roar, the clamor ceased, leaving a deathly silence in its stead. Torn between gratitude and humiliation, Abigail offered him a tight smile and then turned a stern look on the audience.
“Perhaps you find humor in the subject of proper chewing, but I can assure you, if you will master it, the lady with whom you find yourself dining will greatly appreciate your efforts.”
“I should say so.” Mrs. Adelman voiced the firm statement, and her husband squirmed in his seat. She nodded at Abigail. “Go ahead, Miss Grant. Tell him how it should be done.” She poked Mr. Adelman’s shoulder with her finger. “And you listen, Tobis.”
The man’s face blazed, but he looked in Abigail’s direction.
Abigail maintained an even, firm tone as she compared gobbling, chomping, and smacking to a herd of swine feeding at a trough. She then outlined gentlemanly manners, including draping one’s napkin over the knees rather than tucking it into the collar of one’s shirt, never using a piece of bread as a sponge to absorb grease or gravy—oh, how they needed that piece of instruction—and keeping one’s elbows tucked close instead of splayed widely as
if guarding one’s plate. She concluded with, “A knife or fork is not a spear to be gripped in one’s fist. Handle these pieces of cutlery the way you would wield a fountain pen and you are much less likely to push food over the edge of the plate onto the table or into your lap.”
A few of her listeners appeared to fight off grins, but she finished the presentation without interruption.
She dared a glance at the wall clock. The hands showed forty-five minutes past seven. The class was scheduled to end at eight thirty. She should allow the others to practice before they ran out of time. Stepping to the edge of the dais, she flicked her fingers. “Will you all stand?”
The women rose with eagerness, but the men showed their reluctance by slowly unfolding from their seats.
“Please pair off. Of course, Mr. and Mrs. Adelman and Mr. and Mrs. Sandburg will want to stay together.” The expression on Mrs. Adelman’s face refuted Abigail’s statement, but there was little Abigail could do for the unhappy woman. “Mrs. Bingham, you partner with—” She paused. Both Mr. O’Dell and Mr. Chapman had exhibited mild scorn toward her, but Mr. Hildreth’s icy glare made her stomach tremble. She didn’t want to take his arm.
“—Mr. Hildreth, please. Mr. O’Dell and Mr. Chapman, if you will exhibit patience, another gentlemanly virtue, I will take turns partnering with each of you.”
Mr. Chapman snickered. “That sure beats what we have to do at barn dances, huh, Vern?”
Mr. O’Dell nodded, smirking. “Seems like you had to wear the apron at the last dance an’ be the gal, didn’t ya, Firmin?”
“Which would make it your turn tonight.”
Mr. O’Dell aimed his smirk at Abigail. “Didja bring any aprons with ya, Miss Grant?”
Completely confused, she shook her head.
The man shrugged. “Then we’ll take turns strollin’ you around the room.” His shoulders shook in silent laughter.
Beneath a Prairie Moon Page 19
