Fairer than Morning

by Rosslyn Elliott

  A sting at her eyes again brought her kerchief up to hide them. He might bring the girl home with him. He might even be marrying her now. So the naïve fancies that refused to completely dissipate were only a torment to her—the realization that Will would live on the farm—that had she married him, she could have stayed with her sisters and also found a deep happiness of the sort she could not envision with Eli.

  But now she would have to marry Eli, because she would not be able to stay on the farm if Will brought another young woman there as his wife.

  It all struck her as a merciless jest of the kind that did not come from heaven. She had been tempted, all-unknowing, to long for what could never be hers. And in the fierceness of the longing, she begged silently for relief.

  Thirty-Nine

  THE BOARDING HOUSE STANK OF URINE. THE ROTTING timbers of its stairwell were damp and sprouted white lichen. Will mounted the stairs, guided only by the cracks of daylight that filtered through the decaying walls. At Emmie’s door he paused to wait for Tom, who had to climb slowly in his poor state of health. When his friend stood behind him, Will knocked.

  The plank door opened and Emmie peeped out, her narrow face suspicious at first.

  “Oh!” She smiled, her crooked teeth marring an otherwise beautiful effect. “Come in.”

  She opened the door wide and backed up, one hand clutching at her skirt as if she did not know quite what to say or do.

  “It’s all right, Emmie.” Will pretended lightness that did not match his leaden mood. He was grateful that the Lord had spared him today, but coming face-to-face with Emmie leached the color from his future. He had imagined too often his conversations with Ann, her intelligence, her gentleness, the two of them sharing a life in which faith was natural and life-giving. By comparison, Emmie’s placid simplicity would leave him alone in their marriage, her world defined completely by food and clothing.

  But he would never let Emmie know. He would do his best to be a loving husband, letting duty serve where commonality could not.

  “You’re free from him?” she asked.

  “Yes, he has gone to prison for at least four years.”

  “Oh, la! That’s music to my ears.” Her smile was genuine, but her arm circled around Will’s neck with the stiffness of a marionette in a play as she held her body away from his. He understood. It felt awkward to him as well.

  “Both of you, free! Just imagine, after all he’s done.” She touched Tom’s arm as if to share his relief too. That was Emmie, all quickness, body, and animal instinct.

  He did her injustice. He must not begin this way. He would respect her and honor what she brought to the marriage. It was volition that made a marriage, and honoring one’s promises.

  “I would like you to come with me to the farm where I live now.” He took her hand, making up for his mental criticism.

  “Well, I see as how that would be nice.” She kept her hand in his, not meeting his eyes. Perhaps she sensed his reluctance. He would be kinder, as kind as necessary.

  “You will be happy there, I know it. The air is fresh, and the Millers are good people. You would not be as tired as you have been here.” She had confided to him at the jail that her hours at the factory were so long that she had little time for anything else but sleep.

  “Are there lots of flowers? And cheese, and milk, and chickens?” She gave him a tiny smile, her yellow hair framing her face and spilling out under her bonnet as it always had. He squeezed her hand. She was just like a little girl, in some ways.

  “A chicken every Sunday.”

  Her smile widened, though it was still a little tremulous. It was only to be expected. For a girl who had seen nothing but tenement dwellings and the inside of a poorhouse, any change would be frightening.

  “And, Emmie, Will can teach you to read.” Tom stood by the door, shifting from one foot to another as if uncertain whether to stay or go. Will was just as happy that Tom remained. His presence delayed the necessity of more physical demonstrations of affection.

  “You know how you told me you wanted to learn to read.” Tom cracked his knuckles and looked at the floor. “I can’t read, save my own name, but Will can read as good as any schoolteacher.”

  “I’ll be pleased to teach you, if that’s what you wish.”

  She withdrew her hand from his and crossed her arms, rubbing her dress sleeves. “Shall I pack up my things, then?”

  Would he really have to introduce her to the Millers—to Ann—now? He steeled himself. Might as well do it sooner than later, for he would need to cherish her and learn to think of her as his wife without hesitation.

  “I don’t know if you will come stay with us this very day,” he said, “because we are ourselves guests. But I would like you to meet the Millers.” He managed to say it with complete sincerity. His heart would learn, if his manners preceded it. “Would you like to meet them now?”

  “I suppose I would. You don’t think they’ll mind me coming back to their place with you?”

  He pitied the self-consciousness that made her pick at her bodice.

  “No. They will think you charming and kind.”

  Tom shuffled some more and fidgeted. “I guess I’d better be going.”

  For the first time, Tom’s situation dawned on Will. “But where will you go, Tom?” No wonder Tom had come with him. What else could he do? Mistress Good would surely be devastated by the loss of her income represented by Master Good’s imprisonment. And she would not even know her husband’s whereabouts until Tom told her. Master Good had not even brought her to court, so certain was he of his victory.

  “I suppose I’ll go back and tell Mistress Good,” Tom said, echoing Will’s thoughts.

  “No, you cannot do that.” Will would have to think of some other solution. His conscience pained him—in a way, he had been the cause of Mistress Good’s temporary widowhood. And, though he would not say it aloud, it might very well be her permanent widowhood, with the way disease and hard labor cut swaths through a prison population.

  Will rubbed his forehead and sighed. “Come with us back to the courthouse, and we will ride to the Burbridges’ house with Mr. Miller. I think Dr. Loftin will be there too, and we can seek his counsel about Mistress Good.”

  Tom agreed with noticeable relief. Will gave Emmie his arm, and they all went down the reeking stairs together.

  “Mr. Miller, this is my bride-to-be, Emmie Flynn.” Emmie made a little bob of a curtsy to the saddler, while retaining her tight grip on Will’s arm.

  Mr. Miller froze in the act of touching his hat brim, one foot still on the courthouse steps where he had come down to meet them. Slowly, he continued the gesture of courtesy with a nod of the head. “Miss Flynn. Happy news, indeed.” His tone was wooden. Will cringed. He should have told Mr. Miller in private.

  But the saddler was nothing if not a courteous man. “Will had not told us of the news. You will be coming to live with us, I hope?”

  Will could have embraced him just then.

  “I think so, sir.” Emmie spoke in a mumble. Perhaps she was trying to hide her teeth. Will patted her arm.

  “What I don’t know, sir, is where Tom is going to go.” Will glanced at his younger friend, who flushed.

  “I want to stay here, Mr. Miller, sir, in Pittsburgh.” Tom lifted his chin, a little defiant. “It’s all the home I’ve got.”

  “Well, why don’t you come with us, and we’ll talk it over at more length.” Mr. Miller turned back to the open door of the courthouse. “Doctor! The celebration will begin without you if you don’t make haste.”

  Dr. Loftin shouldered his way through the crowd at the door, chuckling and donning his hat. “Patience, Samuel! Some of us have friends here, you know.” He also inspected Emmie with curiosity, registering the fact that her hand lay on Will’s arm. “Miss Flynn, I presume?”

  The doctor had quite a memory. But perhaps when one gave money to help a person in need, it was easy to remember her name.

  “Y
es, Doctor. Thank you for all you’ve done for me, sir.” Emmie dipped her head again.

  “Not at all.”

  Mr. Miller waved to the coachman and turned to Dr. Loftin. “They are coming with us to talk, Robert. We must figure out what Tom shall do for a living now, as he wishes to remain here.”

  “Well, I may be of some help with that. Come along then.” Dr. Loftin shooed them toward the Burbridges’ coach and then headed for his own, which stood waiting behind the larger one. “Tom, will you ride with me?”

  Will wished the doctor had asked Emmie to ride with them as well, as Will would have loved the chance to explain to Mr. Miller, at least in part. He thought the saddler had a trace of a wounded look about him. Will should tell him what had led to this situation, without some of the shameful details.

  But it was not to be, and the conversation on the ride to the Burbridge mansion was stilted. Will grew quieter as they neared their destination, leaving Mr. Miller to discuss the weather with Emmie.

  Now he would have to face Ann. It seemed terrible. He prayed for the courage and judgment to behave as he should.

  The butler took their things, including Emmie’s ragged shawl and bonnet. Should he have brought her here? She looked painfully self-aware in her threadbare dress. Against the sumptuous colors of the walls and the plush pile of the rug under their feet, she might have been an urchin from any fairy tale who found herself by magic in the king’s palace. He must support her. He held her arm and smiled down at her. She still looked mortified and reluctant, her thin face pinched.

  Following the doctor and Mr. Miller, he brought Emmie down the hall. Tom stayed close, his eyes big, his mouth shut.

  Then came the moment he feared. They rounded the doorway into the oval parlor.

  Louisa sat at the far end of the parlor facing them. She stood up, her needlework falling from her lap into a little heap on the floor. Her mouth was slightly open, but she closed it and moved toward them with her customary grace. Ann had been sitting with her back to the door; at Louisa’s motion, she twisted to look, and then after a pause, rose to her feet. Will could not take his eyes off her pallor, transfixed by the haunted look in her eyes.

  “I am Louisa Burbridge.” The young lady held out her hand to Emmie as if the orphan girl were from the finest family in Pittsburgh. “Welcome.”

  Emmie took her hand shyly. Will cringed at the dirt that streaked his fiancée’s arm. At that moment, Ann reached the small group.

  “Tom,” she said. “I am so glad to see you.” To Will’s surprise, he saw tears gather in her eyes. She was more emotional than he would have expected. But she swallowed and seemed to regain her composure.

  “Thank you, miss.” Tom touched his forelock.

  “Miss Burbridge,” Will said, as neither Mr. Miller nor Dr. Loftin had spoken. “This is my fiancée, Miss Emmie Flynn.”

  “And you are so pretty,” Louisa said. “Where has he been hiding you?” There was no hidden meaning in her tone, just soft compliment.

  Emmie beamed before looking uncertain again.

  When Louisa released Emmie’s hand, Ann thrust her own out, less than gracefully. “Miss Flynn. Delighted to meet you.”

  Emmie took Ann’s hand as well, clearly at sea in this perfumed world. Ann was still very pale. Will felt stirrings of nausea. What had he done in arranging this painful encounter? He must get them all through it as quickly as he could.

  “Miss Flynn has agreed to come back to the farm with us . . . when she is my wife.” He forced it out.

  Ann clasped her hands in front of her, tension wrinkling her dress across her collarbone. “How lovely. My congratulations.”

  There was heartbreak in the air, so solid that it could not be waved away by the best manners or the most open welcome Louisa could provide. Will knew he should stop looking at Ann, but immobility was all he could manage when what he really wanted was to bury his face in his hands.

  Then Emmie began to sob.

  Horrified, he ushered her to a chair. He had not dissembled well enough. She had seen the look that passed between Ann and Will. She must know.

  Tears ran down her face, and she could not speak. Her shoulders heaved, she breathed in great gulps. He knelt beside her, offered her his handkerchief, and patted her hand, beyond hope. He had ruined everything, even this young girl’s illusions. Mr. Miller and Dr. Loftin stood helpless in the way of widowers unaccustomed to women’s tears.

  “I’m sorry,” Emmie sobbed, crumpling the handkerchief in a ball. “I can’t do it. Not for nothing.”

  Will bowed his head.

  “It’s all right, Emmie,” a low voice said behind him. Tom stepped up before the weeping girl and looked at the little knot of stunned observers. “I’ll tell them.”

  He raised her to her feet, where she leaned against him as if otherwise her knees would give way.

  “We couldn’t bear to tell you, Will,” Tom said. “Not after what you’ve been through. Not after what I’d done to you. But Emmie and me—well, we didn’t mean to, but we love each other. I went to help her after you left, like you told me. Every time I picked up oakum. We were so sad, I guess we just comforted each other.”

  Will stood up. What was this?

  “You can hit me if you want, Will. I mean, we can step outside.” Tom tripped over his words. “I haven’t been a good friend to you.”

  A burst of laughter threatened to erupt out of Will at any minute. He knew it was shock getting the better of him, but exhilaration swelled beneath it, far away, not yet real.

  “Tom, no one could be a better friend than to do what you did for me in that courtroom.” He struggled to sound subdued and regretful. “There is nothing I wouldn’t sacrifice for you, not even the love of a wonderful girl.”

  He offered his hand and Tom shook it.

  Emmie dared to peep around Tom’s dirty sleeve. “You’re not angry?”

  “I am crushed, of course.” He did not even know what he was babbling. How to preserve her feminine self-regard without showing his jubilation was a balancing act. He did not know if he could maintain it much longer.

  Tom hung his head. “We’ll leave you to think if this is what you really want. I’ll let you have her, Will, if that’s what you and Emmie think is right.”

  Will wrung his hand again.

  The doctor cleared his throat. “I’ll come with you, Tom. We have more to discuss about your application to the factory.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  When they had left the room, Will could not even look at the others. His head was spinning. He strode away down the hall, toward the back door that opened out on the yard and the barn. He had to be alone.

  Forty

  WILL WISHES TO SPEAK WITH YOU.” HER FATHER leaned his head around the door of the Burbridges’ guest bedroom.

  “I do not wish to speak to him.” Ann’s words were clipped as she sat at the desk with borrowed pen and paper. It was high time she wrote to her sisters.

  “He has been waiting for some time.”

  “I am otherwise occupied, as you can see.”

  Her father gave her a knowing, disapproving look and withdrew. His footsteps trailed away down the wood of the upstairs hallway. But in a few minutes, she heard him returning. She sighed with exasperation and turned to face the door, ready for his reappearance and a lecture.

  There was a light knock, and the half-open door creaked wider. Will stood in the doorway, his shoulders almost filling it. In his long dark coat and high collar, he could have passed for a well-born friend of Allan’s.

  “Come for a walk with me. Let me explain.” He asked like a man, not pleading but with quiet urgency. His handsomeness infuriated her at that particular moment. What of it if his dark hair waved down just over the back of his collar?

  “What do you mean?” She fixed him with a stare of mock innocence.

  He looked contrite. “I would like to apologize and to explain. And I will not leave you alone until you allow me to do so.”
>
  She jabbed her quill back into the inkhorn and jumped to her feet. She probably looked like a jack-in-the-box, but in her temper she did not care. “Very well. As you insist, I suppose I must agree.”

  He offered her his arm, but she brushed ahead of him and stalked down the hallway without looking back.

  He did not try to speak as they went down the stairs, though she was conscious of his watchful presence behind her. The butler emerged from his little anteroom—she did not know how he always spotted them so adeptly—and offered their hats.

  “I won’t take mine, thank you,” Will said. “It’s a fine day, and we’ll just walk the grounds.”

  She would not be agreeable, not even to agree that it was a fine day and it might be pleasant to walk with the sun on her face and the breeze in her hair. She took her hat from the butler and tied it firmly under her chin. When the man opened the door for them, she sailed ahead and down the wide steps, across the drive, and onto the green lawn.

  She was already surrounded by the cones and spheres of the topiary when a firm hand clasped her elbow. “You should go out for footraces. You’d give any man a run for his money.”

  She was forced to slow down as he drew her closer to his side and interlaced their arms, trapping her hand with his. His fingers were warm over hers. She glanced up at him, but the affection that lit his face disconcerted her. She turned to study the topiary they passed as if he were of little interest.

  “You have every right to be angry with me.”

  She would admit nothing. “Why should I be angry?”

  He paused. “Let’s sit down. I would like to see your face.”

  She had been enjoying the fact that she could cut him out of her peripheral vision with the wide brim of her hat. The woman who designed this style of hat must have known that there were times when one just wanted a man out of sight.