Fancy Pants (Only In Gooding Book #1)

by Hake, Cathy Marie

  “Folks are coming. Women are okay—but no men. Got that? Not a one.”

  “Men ride a horse when they’re going on a visit.” Velma sounded calm as could be.

  “Not when they want to court!” Something banged, as if to punctuate his frustration. “I knew this was going to happen.

  What a mess. I don’t have the time or patience for this.”

  “Look out the window. It’s just women and a baby or two.”

  “For now.” Tim’s voice vibrated with irritation. “Keep it that way.” The door slammed shut.

  Sydney let out a deep sigh and looked down at the material in her arms. This was the beginning of the end. Now that Tim knew she was a woman, he was going to grouse and growl over everything until he got rid of her.

  In a little while, four wagons pulled up to Forsaken’s front porch. Miriam Stauffer was the first one to arrive. She had little Emmy-Lou with her. She’d sewn two petticoats for Sydney, knowing the day would come when the truth came to light.

  Mrs. Smith and the older woman for whom the cabin had been erected arrived next. Three children accompanied them. Emmy-Lou joined them on the porch, and they started playing.

  Waving a magazine, Lena Patterson cheerfully announced, “I have April’s Peterson’s Magazine. We’ll have to make Lady Hathwell a gown!”

  Until now, Sydney had to meet and remember men’s names. Now it was women. She made a quick mental connection—Lena Patterson with Peterson’s Magazine. “How thoughtful. But please, just call me Sydney. I do hope we’ll all become friends.”

  Velma grinned. “Sydney, you’ll love these gals. Women hereabouts all pitch in and help one another.”

  Sydney gave a reply. It must have been acceptable, because the women were all smiling. I’m going back to a woman’s world. I’ve already slipped back into the manners and know the rules. But the time I spent as a man—I’m going to miss it! The challenges and the excitement and my time with Tim. No friendship ever meant as much to me as Tim’s.

  “Well, here’s Etta!” Velma brightened.

  Sydney turned toward the woman in the doorway. “I’ve heard your baby is beautiful.”

  “Thank you.” Etta allowed Velma to swipe the tiny, blanketed bundle from her. “If it weren’t for Velma, I don’t know how I would have managed. I need to go back out. I brought a bowl of my carrot-raisin salad.”

  “Nobody makes carrot-raisin salad like you, Etta.” Velma cradled the baby. “Sydney even commented on it the day we built the cabin over at the Smiths’.”

  In Etta’s absence, Velma turned to Lena. “I’m glad you brought that magazine. I bought that material over on the table, and we were going to make Sydney a dress today.”

  “That hue will look lovely on you. Any shade of yellow is the height of fashion this year. The color of that piece reminds me of goldenrod.” Lena went over and lifted the fabric. “It’ll drape beautifully. Let’s decide on a style.”

  The magazine featured a fold-out. “I’ve not yet seen an American magazine. So Parisian styles are all the rage here. In England the fashions are going more toward plain or gored fronts to the skirts with ample draping over the bustles. Oh, look at this print—someone hand-tinted it quite elegantly.”

  “The carriage and walking dress—we could make that gown for you.” Lena indicated that model. “Aren’t the sleeves on it marvelous?”

  Sydney gently took possession of the magazine and turned the pages toward the front. “Here we are!”

  “But those are everyday dresses.” They all eyed the three sketches.

  “Precisely!” Sydney tapped the second one. “I especially like this one.”

  “A wash dress?!” Mrs. Smith sounded scandalized. “Besides, you’d need striped cloth in addition to the solid.”

  “Velma has a wonderful selection of feed sacks. Do you mind if we use a few, Velma?”

  “Not a bit.”

  Mrs. Smith let out a nervous giggle. “You’d use feed sacks? A lady wearing something made of feed sacks like us commoners?”

  Sydney smiled at her. “Each and every one of you are ladies. Furthermore, I find your gowns quite pretty.”

  By midmorning, a skirt from the amber material was sewn together. Etta sat off to the side to nurse her baby while Lena and Linda White matched the stripes as they pieced the jacket bodice.

  Sydney started hemming the skirt. “That postillion back is the height of fashion, yet so practical.”

  Linda commented on how a few gathers or pleats yielded so much more ease to a garment.

  Pants, dear ladies, were far more liberating.

  “Gramma!” A child ran in through the open door. “A wagon is coming. It gots lotta ladies in it.”

  A few minutes later, Mrs. Richardson and her three eldest daughters rushed into the house. “It’s true!” Katherine shrieked. “You are a girl!”

  Marcella gawked at her. “I heard Big Tim was mad at you. If I ever told a lie like you did, Daddy would take a switch to me.”

  Linette shook her head. “You made a laughingstock out of Tim. He’ll never forgive you.”

  Sydney swallowed hard. “We cannot make fools of others, only of ourselves. Mr. Creighton has proven to be both wise and kind. I, on the other hand, fear I’ve succeeded in making an utter fool of myself.”

  Linda White cleared her throat. Her eyes reflected confusion, not condemnation. “We were all wondering why you did it.”

  I didn’t just fool Tim and the hands. I did it to everyone. “I owe everyone an apology. It started out as a misunderstanding. I telegraphed Uncle Fuller, and he thought I was a boy.”

  Velma wrapped her arm around Sydney’s waist and squeezed. “Fuller wrote her and said he had no use for a girl. So there our Sydney was, stranded and alone in New York.”

  “You poor dear.” The old woman for whom the cabin had been built pulled a hanky from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. “I know how hard it is. You lose someone, and you can’t think straight.”

  Mrs. Smith took the old woman’s hand in hers and gave it a tender stroke. “But you’re with us now, and everything is working out fine. I’m sure Sydney will settle in, too, given a little time.”

  “While you’re all helping her settle in, I’m going to go stir the soup and take the bread out of the oven before it burns,” Velma said.

  “We brought over cobbler.” Mrs. Richardson slid a pan into Marcella’s hands. “Didn’t want to come empty-handed.”

  Sydney realized Mrs. Richardson didn’t intend to be mean, though the Smiths couldn’t possibly afford to have brought anything. She simply didn’t think about what she said any more than her daughters did. “I’m sure we’ll all enjoy it. Each of you brought something sweet today—the offer of your friendship. I’m deeply touched.”

  “My baby’s blanket,” Etta said from the corner, “was a gift from Linda. Every time I swaddle my daughter in it, I know Linda made it with love. I hope you’ll think kindly of us whenever you wear this dress we’re making.”

  “I’ll be robed in your thoughtfulness.” Sydney ran her hand over a small scrap. “Velma chose the perfect color. Friendship is golden.”

  Tim descended all five church steps by stepping only on the center board, strode over across the churchyard, and elbowed no less than three men out of the way before reaching Forsaken’s wagon. A gaggle of women had invited themselves over for a sewing bee yesterday, and he knew they’d stitched up a gown for Sydney—but until that moment, Tim hadn’t known exactly what they’d accomplished. His jaw tightened as he reached to help her alight from the conveyance. Illuminated by the bright morning sun, the woman resembled a golden statue.

  He’d quelled concerns about coming to church early to see to things, but he refused to compromise his commitments. He hadn’t dropped his standards when Syd was a “boy,” and he sure wasn’t going to now that she’d revealed her duplicity. In one aspect, gender didn’t matter: As a boy or a girl, Sydney had to change to fit in at Forsaken. But then things t
ook a savage twist. As a woman, she posed a whole new, bigger set of problems now—and the proof surrounded him in the form of a pack of men gawking at her.

  “Miss Sydney,” Orville Clark proclaimed, “you’re a sight to behold.”

  “It’s Lady Hathwell. You have no right to be so familiar, Clark.” Jim Whitsley poked out his elbow to offer Sydney his arm. “I’ll be happy to escort you to worship.”

  Tim yanked Sydney away from them and rested his hands on her shoulders. The minute he did so, he knew he’d made a mistake. New fabric ought to be stiff and a tad bit scratchy. Well, her dress was, and it probably itched. The bubble-covered shoulders he’d seen in that bathtub were milky white and undoubtedly sensitive. With her habit of causing trouble, she’d probably end up rashy.

  “What’s wrong?” Nestor wondered aloud.

  Tim’s hold on Sydney tightened. “This young woman is young.” Great. I’m making a fool of myself. “By that, I mean she’s still a minor and Fuller’s kin. By all rights, any matters pertaining to her go through him. Until he gets home, Forsaken—and Lady Hathwell—are off-limits to all the bachelors.”

  More than a few men moaned. Jim Whitsley looked outraged. “Nothing awrong with being sociable.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with giving Fuller the courtesy and respect he’s earned,” Tim shot back. “That’s the way it’s going to be.” He motioned to Velma, who bustled over and stood on Sydney’s other side. They escorted her into the sanctuary, and Tim made sure they sandwiched Sydney between them.

  Sydney folded her gloved hands in the lap of her new gown and looked straight ahead. At some point—Tim couldn’t imagine when—she’d managed to locate a little straw hat. Flowers made from the same yellowish material from her dress and a cream-colored ribbon decorated the affair. She looked every inch the demure lady.

  And he’d been fool enough to believe she was a boy.

  Parson Bradle’s eldest son slipped into the pew in front of them and turned. “Miss—I mean, Lady Hathwell, Ma—she said to invite you to Sunday supper. We’d all be glad to have you.”

  He looks at Sydney like she’s what’s for lunch. Tim glared at him.

  Sydney gave her head a small, definitive shake. “Thank you for your kindness, but I cannot. As Mr. Creighton has said, it’s only proper my uncle be consulted.”

  Well, at least she had the good sense to follow suit.

  Mouth opening and shutting like a dying trout, Bradle went beet red. “Velma, you and Tim could come, too.”

  “No, thanks.” Tim locked eyes with him. “Velma already has Sunday supper all planned.”

  Monday at lunch, Velma stuck one plate—albeit heaping— on the table in front of Tim. Sunday dinner was the only meal he and Sydney had shared since he’d discovered the truth. Velma’s cooking tasted great, but the crackling silence at the Sunday table yesterday made it clear everything was out of kilter. Today wasn’t going any more smoothly. In two short days, Sydney had turned Forsaken upside down.

  He rubbed his knuckles along the edge of the snowy linen tablecloth. “What’s this doing out?”

  Velma cocked a brow and said nothing.

  “You prize this. It only comes out for special occasions like Christmas.”

  “What good does it do, moldering away in a cabinet?” Velma smoothed out an invisible wrinkle. “Irish linen. You have to admit, it’s mighty fine looking.”

  “Too good for everyday,” he muttered.

  “Since when did you care about how the house looked?” Velma moved an arrangement of flowers over a few inches, then scooted it straight back to where it had been in the center of the table. It wasn’t just a fistful of blooms jammed into a jar. Three different kinds of green stuff wiggled and stuck out around a variety of flowers that were all varying shades of blue. Nothing other than blue. In a crystal vase. Tim hadn’t ever seen the vase before.

  Syd had gone all girly on him. Every last fussy frill festered— no matter where he looked, something reminded him of his foolishness and her betrayal. He refused to ask Velma where Sydney was.

  “While we were at the mercantile, Sydney heard that the parson and his wife are both feeling puny. We paid a mercy call.”

  Tim raked his fingers through his hair. Sydney was about the same size as Louisa. This was exactly why he didn’t want a woman around. They were too fragile. “Why take her somewhere she could get sick? What if it’s the cholera or typhus or—”

  “Nah. Parson’s back has a kink in it again, and his missus got hornet-stung, so she’s itching something awful. Sydney offered to stay and help out.”

  “She’s more likely to set their house afire.”

  Velma shot him a murderous look.

  “Fine,” Tim huffed. “Maybe while Sydney’s there, they can calm her down a notch or two. The woman is as touchy as a ready-to-foal mare.”

  “You’re the antsy one.”

  Tim scowled at her. This whole thing was a mess. Friday, he’d gone back to town and sent Fuller a telegram. Wording it had been tricky. He didn’t want the whole nation knowing he’d been duped, so he’d settled on an informative directive: Your niece, Sydney, needs to meet with you.

  Saturday, no reply. The telegraph office was closed on Sunday. Today. Today I’ll hear from Fuller. He’ll hightail it home now. He has to!

  But the day passed without any contact.

  Velma’s mood hadn’t improved at all when he sat down to the supper table that night. She slid a plate in front of him and headed back toward the kitchen.

  He felt utterly ridiculous, sitting at a flower-decked, linencovered table all by himself. “Where’s Sydney?”

  “She’s spending the night over at the parsonage. Ella Mae’s broken out in the worst case of hives imaginable, and Parson Bradle can’t help her. As for their sons—well,” she sniffed, “they’re as useless as horns on a hound.”

  A wave of anger swamped him. “You mean to tell me you left Sydney in that household, overnight, knowing they have three full-grown sons?”

  “All three are mighty fine-looking bucks”—Velma nodded—“ but Sydney didn’t seem to take much notice. She was busy reading aloud to the parson and putting baking soda compresses on Ella Mae.”

  “Do you think I care if Sydney noticed those boys? No!” He shoved away from his untouched meal and rose. “I care if they noticed her, and I can tell you here and now, every last one did. Fuller’ll skin me alive if any of them lays a finger on her.”

  “Land o’ Goshen, Tim, she’s in the parsonage! Only place safer would be the church!”

  “I’m going to go get her.”

  Velma planted herself squarely in his path and stared him in the eye. “No, you’re not. It takes a fair bit to rile me, but you’ve succeeded, Tim Creighton. You’re a fine one to talk about how anyone else treats that gal. Those boys are treating her like she’s every bit as special as she really, truly is. You tromp in there, breathing fire, and they’ll wonder why you’re so overprotective.”

  “I don’t care what they think!”

  “Perhaps you ought to. You’ve kept to yourself too much, too long. You stopped caring about everything when your wife died. Folks cut you plenty of slack, but time’s come for you to move on.” She put up a hand to silence the protest that had him opening his mouth. “You may not want to admit it, but truth’s the truth. The minute you go thundering around and kick up a fuss about little Sydney, it’ll make folks sit up and take notice. They’ll think you’re claimin’ her as your very own.”

  He froze. “Oh no! Now you just wait a minute!”

  “No, you wait a minute. You stop and think, and you’ll know I’m right. ’Sides, this buys you some time. I know you sent Fuller a telegram. I’ll wait till afternoon tomorrow to go fetch her back, and by then maybe you’ll have a reply.”

  “Of course I can do it.” Sydney took the sheets from Mrs. Bradle. “Would you care for a cup of fresh-brewed chamomile tea? It promotes rest, you know.”

  A tired smile f
litted across the parson’s wife’s face. “I doubt I need it. I’m so exhausted, I could sleep through the Second Coming.”

  “If you and the reverend need anything, don’t hesitate to summon me.”

  “You’re a dear. Good night.”

  Sydney opened the door to the other bedchamber. The Bradles’ sons were sleeping elsewhere tonight so she’d have a bed. If she’d ever had brothers, Sydney knew they would have been just like the Bradle boys. The three of them were just over a year apart, stacked in size just like porch steps. They all washed up and combed their hair neatly before sitting down to the supper table. Sydney recognized the “best behavior” look on their faces—she’d worn it herself more times than she could count.

  Sydney stripped the linen off the center bed and lifted a crisply folded sheet. For the first time ever she set about changing the sheets on a bed. She managed to bungle the job; the mattress kept slipping when she lifted it to tuck the sheet underneath. The sheets wanted to migrate anywhere other than where she intended them to stay, and she had no idea how to make the corners lie flat at the precise angles they did when her chambermaid back home saw to the matter.

  A giggle welled up inside her. I’ll strip the bed at daybreak so no one will ever see what a terrible job I’ve done. Sydney crawled into bed wearing a borrowed nightgown and lay there for all of a minute before she felt a wrinkle beneath her shoulders. She squirmed, and the wrinkle seemed to widen like the Thames until it ceased irritating her upper arm . . . and started feeling like a bale of barbed wire beneath her hip. “Princess and the Pea, my foot.” She crept from the bed and gave the sheet an impatient jerk. The wrinkle almost disappeared before her eyes. Delighted with that discovery, she gripped it more firmly and gave it another tug. The feather mattress came sliding off the rope straps and fell around her knees.

  By the time she hauled the mattress back up, Sydney came to a firm decision. She’d been a fool when she thought cooking and cleaning and all of the other myriad domestic chores were far less physically demanding than ranch work! She swept the sheet toga-styled around herself and fell onto the mattress. Tim thought I made for a pitiful man, and he was right. But I’m no better at being a woman.