Summer of Promise

by Amanda Cabot

  5

  Abigail smiled. What else could she do, when Puddles sat at her sister’s feet, gnawing on a bone and occasionally giving her adoring looks, looks that Charlotte returned? In the three days since the puppy had become part of the family, Charlotte had regained much of her sparkle. She laughed at Puddles’s antics, did not complain when the puppy chewed one of her favorite slippers, and had somehow placated Mrs. Channing when Puddles refused to remain in the wooden crate that was supposed to be his bed. Charlotte had even managed to eat a normal breakfast this morning, and though it would take weeks for the hollows in her cheeks to disappear, at least today her face had a rosy hue.

  As if she sensed her sister’s scrutiny, Charlotte looked up. As soon as they’d finished breakfast, she and Abigail had repaired to the parlor, planning to finish their sewing before the day’s heat made having extra yards of fabric draped over one’s lap unpleasant. “Do you think Elizabeth would like living here?”

  Abigail blinked, surprised by the question. She had written their sister a letter yesterday, trying to make Wyoming sound appealing but feared she had failed. “I don’t know. She seems to like New York. Even though her studies keep her busy, I think she enjoys city life.”

  “Cheyenne’s a city.”

  “That’s true.” Abigail stared at her sister. “Why are you asking this?”

  “Because it’s wonderful having you here, and I was trying to figure out a way to get all three of us together.” A wistful smile crossed Charlotte’s face.

  Abigail couldn’t let her sister continue. “You don’t honestly think I’d stay here permanently, do you?”

  Shaking her head, Charlotte said, “I know it’s just a dream and that your place is back in Vermont with Woodrow, but it would be nice.”

  Abigail fingered the petticoat she was hemming while Charlotte put the finishing touches on Abigail’s dress for the dance. “I’m not like you, Charlotte. I don’t want to live somewhere where the wind howls every day. I don’t want to move every year or two. I want a home of my own.”

  Charlotte nodded shortly. “I understand.” She clipped a thread, then rose, holding the dress she’d been sewing in front of her. “What do you think?”

  “It’s beautiful.” Abigail fingered the dark green muslin that had been nothing more than an ordinary summer frock two days ago. Now, thanks to her sister’s talented needle and the judicious application of lace, it was a ball gown. “It’s truly amazing how different it looks.” Charlotte had lowered the neckline, declaring the original one frumpy, but had acceded to Abigail’s desire for modesty by adding a lace insertion to the bodice. Then, in what Abigail considered sheer genius, her sister had appliquéd medallions from the remaining lace onto the skirt. The result was the loveliest gown Abigail had ever owned. “You have a real gift,” she told her sister. “I would never have thought that a bit of lace would turn a plain dress into something so pretty.”

  Though Charlotte’s eyes sparkled at the praise, she said only, “Mama used to claim I had an eye for fashion.”

  “She was right. It’s a wonderful talent.” Puddles barked, as if agreeing.

  Charlotte draped the dress over a chair. “Let’s go to the sutler’s store and see if we can find a gift for Elizabeth. If she can’t be with us, at least she’ll know we’re thinking about her.”

  With Puddles firmly attached to his leash and jumping with apparent glee as the women led him out the front door, Abigail and Charlotte descended the steps. “Let’s take the long way,” Charlotte said, gesturing to the right. “It’s such a nice day.”

  It was a pretty day. The wind was gentle, at least by Wyoming standards, and did not threaten to blow Abigail’s hat away, and several puffy cumulus clouds drifted across a sky that was almost as deep a blue as Ethan’s eyes. Abigail nodded. Though she’d accompanied Charlotte on several walks, they had always gone the opposite direction, retracing the route Abigail had taken when she arrived.

  As they rounded the corner, Puddles strained at the leash, trying to reach the wagon loaded with freshly cut lumber and six disgruntled-looking soldiers that was making its way toward the site where the administration building was taking shape. “No, Puddles. The men can’t play.”

  That elicited a chuckle from the men. “Well, ma’am,” one said with a grin, “that would be a sight better than cutting trees. I shore didn’t think this was what I’d be doin’ when I signed up for the Army.”

  When they were out of earshot, Abigail turned to her sister. “I didn’t want to hurt the men’s feelings, but I think Puddles was more interested in the wood than in them. He seems to be attracted by smells.” Abigail had noticed that when she opened a jar of pickles and again when she dabbed toilet water on her wrists. In both cases, Puddles had bounded to her side, his nose twitching.

  “There are even more smells here,” Charlotte said as they passed a long adobe building. “This is one of the infantry barracks. The other ones are on the far side of the parade ground.”

  Abigail had seen the buildings from Charlotte’s house, but a closer look revealed the gap between officers’ and enlisted men’s housing. There was no doubt the Army had a caste system. While Charlotte’s home boasted many amenities, these edifices were almost spartan. No wonder the enlisted men were resentful enough to desert.

  Ethan and Jeffrey had reported that the men had been excited by the prospect of playing baseball and had exhibited friendly rivalry as they’d decided who would play each position. At the time Abigail had wondered whether part of the reason for the men’s enthusiasm was that the rules about fraternization were relaxed for sports, with officers and enlisted men playing together. Now she wondered if they looked forward to an opportunity to demonstrate their superiority, if only on the ball field.

  “I wouldn’t want to live there,” she said as she looked at the barracks.

  Charlotte laughed. “It’s not just the barracks or even Wyoming. You never wanted anything to do with soldiers. I remember that you’d run away when the boys played war games at recess. The rest of the girls used to watch.”

  But the rest of the girls had not seen what could happen when boys played soldier with their fathers’ rifles.

  Abigail tried not to shudder as the memories washed over her. Instead, she did what Papa had always advised: she tried to think of something more pleasant. “What kind of gift did you have in mind for Elizabeth?”

  Charlotte shrugged. “I’m not sure. We’ll have to see what the sutler has.”

  When Puddles plopped himself in front of her and refused to move, Charlotte bent down and scratched his head. Apparently mollified, the puppy began to scamper again. “Silly dog. Now, what was I saying? Gifts. Jeffrey and I gave his siblings canned oysters for Christmas, and they seemed to enjoy them.” Charlotte’s brow furrowed. “From the little he’s said, I’ve gathered that the family had a difficult time when Jeffrey was a child. There was rarely enough food for all of them—Jeffrey has eight brothers and sisters—and he told me he’d never received a gift at Christmas. I think that’s why he was so happy to be able to buy something for all of them.”

  And that would explain why he insisted on Charlotte having the best of everything.

  They’d reached the corner of the parade ground. If they continued straight, the road led toward the bakery, the commissary, and what everyone called Suds Row, the laundresses’ homes. Charlotte started to turn left to continue circling the parade ground, but Abigail’s attention was caught by two women approaching from the other direction. Their hair was the brightest blonde she had ever seen, and the flamboyant colors of their dresses would have made Mama wince.

  “Come on.” Frowning, Charlotte grabbed Abigail’s arm and pivoted on her heel, heading back toward her house.

  “What about the sutler?”

  “We’ll go when they aren’t there.” Charlotte’s frown deepened. “No decent woman would be in the same room with them, but just you watch. Some of the men will follow them.” Charlotte gla
nced at the company of soldiers drilling on the parade ground, as if she expected them to break formation and run after the women. “I don’t understand why the Army lets them onto the fort. It’s bad enough that they work at Peg’s Place, selling whiskey and . . .”

  Charlotte’s face reddened, perhaps with anger, perhaps embarrassment. Though she clamped her lips together and refused to pronounce the final word, Abigail knew exactly how the women earned their living.

  Frances uncorked the bottle and splashed some of the amber liquid into a glass. The whiskey might not be as good as some she’d drunk when the troupe had been on tour, but it was decidedly better than the stuff served on the opposite side of the building. This back room where she waited for her visitor was off-limits to all but the high rollers. Not that this one would be rolling any dice today. Today was all business—their other business.

  “You told me there weren’t going to be any Army personnel on that coach.” Frances almost laughed at the man’s confusion. He’d probably expected some sort of greeting, but she’d learned it was best to open with a sally, letting your opponent see that you held the upper hand. You’d have thought the Army would have taught him that, but he appeared unprepared for her attack.

  “Bowles wasn’t supposed to come back for another day. How was I supposed to know he’d be bored in Cheyenne?”

  The beads of perspiration dotting the man’s forehead bore witness to his discomfort. Good. He deserved to be uncomfortable. The baron had certainly made her uncomfortable when he’d heard about the stagecoach fiasco.

  “You’re paid to know.” Frances took another sip of whiskey, watching the man’s unease grow. Enough. She needed him almost as much as he needed her. “Want a drink?” She poured a generous quantity into a second glass and pushed it toward him. As he drank greedily, she adopted a friendly tone. “We need a replacement for Schiller. He’s useless until his hand heals, and I don’t want to wait that long. The baron’s getting anxious. We need another soldier to go over the hill.”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t heard of anyone planning to desert.”

  Frances let out a sigh. “It’s not likely they’ll tell you, is it? You’d be honor bound to report them, and then where would they be? Locked up in that guardhouse. But you’ve got to know who’s unhappy. It’s mighty hard to hide that. Just give me a couple names. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  The man shook his head, and for a moment Frances thought he would refuse, but then he downed the rest of his whiskey. When he’d wiped his lips, he muttered two names, keeping his eyes on the table as he pronounced them. “Is that all?” he asked.

  “Yes.” For now.

  The man shoved his chair back and bolted from the room, his gait revealing his anger. Frances waited until the door closed behind him before she laughed. He might not like it, but he was caught as surely as a trout with a hook in its mouth. Perfect.

  To Abigail’s relief, Saturday was sunny and warm, windier than she would have liked, but not oppressively hot. The worst heat, Charlotte warned her, would come during July. Since June in Wyoming had already proven to be considerably hotter than Vermont, Abigail was glad that she would be leaving right after Independence Day.

  When they reached their destination, Abigail discovered that the house where the dance would be held was similar to Charlotte and Jeffrey’s, a large building divided into two residences. Located on the west side of the parade ground close to the bachelor officers’ quarters, the post surgeon’s house, and the sutler’s store, it appeared to be a few years older than Charlotte’s house, but the rooms were larger. The majority of the furniture had been removed from the parlor to provide space for dancing, leaving only a few chairs around the perimeter for those who tired of the exercise.

  “Come see what we have in store for you.” Mrs. Montgomery, who’d been waiting inside the house, gestured toward the dining room, where the table was laden with silver platters covered with what appeared to be a variety of cakes and cookies and a large punch bowl. An epergne filled with fresh flowers formed the centerpiece, flanked by heavy cut-glass candlesticks. It was a surprisingly elegant setting, and, though she was almost two thousand miles away, Abigail could have imagined herself back in Vermont, were it not for the wind howling outside. Her two hostesses wore heavy satin dresses that would not have been out of place in Boston, complemented by two of the elaborate hairstyles depicted in Frank Leslie’s Gazette of Fashion. “It’s beautiful. I feel honored to be here.”

  “We’re pleased to have you with us.” Mrs. Alcott smoothed her light blue skirts. “Tonight is, after all, special.”

  And it was. Mrs. Alcott’s parlor was soon crowded with so many people that Abigail wondered how they would manage to dance. Though Charlotte had told her there were only seventeen officers at the fort, and at least one of them had not arrived, the room was filled. The wives, dressed in their finest, mingled with the bachelors, while Mrs. Montgomery and Mrs. Alcott stood at the entrance to the parlor, introducing Abigail to each newcomer. Though she knew she’d never recall their names, what she would remember was the genuinely warm welcome each one offered her. Young or middle-aged, male or female—it didn’t seem to matter. They all made Abigail feel as if her visit would be one of the highlights of their summer. She spoke briefly with each one, forcing herself to keep her attention focused on the person she was greeting, and yet in the brief interval between conversations, she glanced around the room, searching for the one familiar face she had expected.

  He was not here.

  Abigail bit back her disappointment. Though she couldn’t explain how it had happened, in the few days that she had been at Fort Laramie, Ethan had become an important part of her life. He had begun to take meals with the family, and while it might be disloyal, she found his conversation more stimulating than that of her sister or Jeffrey. They had all discussed the dance—indeed, it seemed to be Charlotte’s primary topic of conversation, eclipsing even Puddles—but Abigail could not recall Ethan saying that he planned to attend. She had simply assumed that he would be here. And he was not.

  “I think we’re ready to start dancing.” Mrs. Alcott looked at the small clock hanging on the wall. It was a quarter past eight, time for the evening’s festivities to begin.

  Abigail nodded and started to turn, but the sound of boot steps in the hallway made her pause. He had come after all.

  “Good evening, Abigail.” Ethan removed his cap and inclined his head toward his companion. A couple inches taller than Ethan, the man had brown hair, light blue eyes, and the longest nose Abigail had seen. “This young man would like to meet you,” Ethan continued. “May I present Second Lieutenant Oliver Seton? Oliver, this is Miss Abigail Harding.”

  A rush of color flooded the man’s face. “I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Harding. Will you do me the honor of sharing the first dance with me?”

  Abigail looked down at the dance card Charlotte had insisted she carry. “I’m sorry, but that one is already spoken for.” Jeffrey had insisted on accompanying her for the opening dance, claiming that Charlotte needed to rest. “I am, however, free for the third dance.” As she inscribed his name on her card, the lieutenant grinned, his thin face still flushed with what appeared to be embarrassment.

  “May I have the fourth?”

  “Certainly.” Abigail nodded at Ethan.

  By the time the third dance ended, the room was overcrowded and overheated and the sounds of a dozen different conversations made it difficult to hear the musicians. Yet, despite the less-than-perfect conditions, the guests appeared to be having a good time, even those men who wore handkerchiefs tied around their upper arms to indicate that they were taking the women’s role. That was, Charlotte had explained, common practice, since men outnumbered women at the post. “There’d be little dancing, otherwise,” she had said.

  “Would you prefer to spend this dance outdoors?” Ethan asked when he reached Abigail’s side. Lieutenant Seton, who’d insisted he would be honored if she called h
im Oliver, though he would not be so presumptuous as to employ her given name, had tried to convince Ethan to give up his dance but had met with a stern rebuke.

  “If you hadn’t insisted on polishing your boots a second time, we would have been here on time,” Ethan told the lieutenant as he placed Abigail’s hand on his arm. “You could have asked Miss Harding for another dance then. Now her card is probably full.”

  It was, but that gave Abigail less pleasure than the knowledge that Ethan had not been reluctant to come this evening. And, though she’d been looking forward to dancing with him, some quiet time outside now held more appeal.

  “I’d be glad to go outdoors, if you don’t mind,” she told him.

  Ethan favored her with one of the grins she liked so much. “Not at all. Bumping into other people in a hot room is not my favorite pastime.” Like her, he had had partners for the first three dances, and beads of perspiration dotted his forehead. “In fact, bumping into people whether the room is hot or cold is not something I particularly enjoy.”

  Abigail chuckled as he opened the door to usher her onto the porch. Though the wind continued to blow, the house protected this side of the porch, making it a pleasant spot.

  “My grandfather insisted that I learn to dance,” Ethan continued, “but I have to admit I’ve never enjoyed it. You and Charlotte, however, appear to relish it.” Despite Jeffrey’s claim that his wife needed to rest, Ethan had shared the first dance with Charlotte, whirling her around with such enthusiasm that Charlotte had laughed out loud. Now he leaned back against the railing, facing Abigail, looking as if nothing was more important than her response.

  “Perhaps it’s because dancing is still a novelty for us. Charlotte and I learned how less than two years ago.” When Ethan raised an eyebrow, encouraging her to continue, Abigail did. “Our father believed that dancing was temptation sent by the devil. Mama didn’t agree, but out of respect for him, none of us danced while he was alive.”