Two hours passed by. A mixed-bag of time allotment, in Sophie’s opinion. Jessica dithered over this pattern using that fabric, or that pattern using this fabric. Usually something so elaborate in style that the size of a Boston cathedral would probably be needed to do it proper justice.
Meanwhile, Vickie let her utter boredom with the whole procedure be known.
“How much longer will this take? I might just as well go visit Val, at the Clarion office, as sit through so much silliness.”
“A gown made specifically for the most important day of a girl’s life is hardly silliness!” flared Jessica. Although she aimed the gibe not directly toward her unruly sister, but at her aunt, who might be more understanding.
Sometimes it was safer, more logical, to ignore what could be the opening salvo of another war. Especially with things the way they now existed.
“Jessica, we are here for that express purpose,” chided Sophie. “Vickie, I spied a dress in the main room that might be just what you’re looking for. Maisie, might she try that on, while Jess continues to search for the world’s only perfect outfit?”
“Oh, Auntie…”
The protest came automatically, but Sophie was adamant. “Come along, let’s go. Jessie, I presume that the carnation pink color would be suitable for your sister’s role in your arrangements?”
No argument there. With more time allotted to her own wishes—no matter those of anyone else—Jessica settled back down with her multitude of choices. Meanwhile Sophie, accompanied by the shop’s owner, swished away to carefully remove the selected dress from its form. Then she scooted her younger niece, still rebellious, into a closet delegated for that very purpose and ruthlessly got her stripped down to her altogethers and re-dressed.
“I’m ready,” snarled Vickie, from behind the door.
“Good. Then come out, if you please, that we might inspect.”
Still squawking, she emerged with some difficulty. “The hoops are so huge I can barely get through the door. How many yards of material go into this skirt, anyway? Really, Auntie, sleeves which are mostly sheer? What can you be thinking?”
Her aunt essayed a critical survey. “I am thinking that the style is simple enough not to compete with Jessie’s finery, whatever that might be. And that you will definitely need a corset, tightly laced. But, oh, Vic, my dear—” Sophie paused with a sudden gleam of tears, “how lovely you look!”
“Lovely?”
“Indeed, yes,” affirmed Maisie, with a smile. “Please—the mirror, there.”
Someone’s image was reflected back at her from the oval gilt-framed glass. Someone else. Not Victoria Clark. Surely that radiant girl, with the aura of a princess, could not be she!
The hue of the summery organza proved a perfect foil for her tumbled hair and clear creamy complexion, with a pretty dip to the neckline that emphasized her bosom and whittled her waist down to nothing.
Aunt Sophie sniffed just a little. She had turned away, as if to conceal her emotions, to gaze out the wide front window facing the street. The sunlight must have been a tad too bright, for she was blinking rapidly. Or perhaps it was something else entirely, for she raised one gloved hand to her lips to screen a small cough. Then another. Pause, then several more, while she attempted to catch her breath.
“Vic—” she managed a word here and there, interrupted by spasms. “Medicine—bag, in—in surrey—”
While Maisie urged the stricken woman to a chair and then rushed to fetch a glass of water, Victoria dashed toward the door and outside. Only rarely was her aunt afflicted by these attacks. No one could explain why, although she herself guessed it might occasionally be due to nervous tension as much as weather or her own physical condition.
Some sort of bronchial problem, a physician had once diagnosed, after a consultation, and prescribed a tincture of lobelia, to soothe respiratory inflammation and suppress the need to wheeze or choke.
Vickie had pelted her way almost to the rig when she cannoned into a big bulky immovable object that knocked the breath out of her and sent her reeling. Two sinewy arms caught her before she could tumble to the ground, and set her straight.
Vickie reared back with a gasp that would have done credit to her aunt just now. “Sam!”
“Why, yes.” He gave her the slow, slightly crooked smile that had always, during their increasingly exciting times together, sent her pulses pounding and her blood to flow like slow molasses in her veins. “It is me. And you are—let me see…Miss Clark, are you not? Miss Victoria Clark?”
This time her small, involuntary gasp was one of disbelief. “Sam, how could you—how could you not—”
He was giving her a leisurely survey, from top of tumbled hair to sole of somewhat dusty shoes and back again. The kind of look in which she had once reveled for its passion and physical delight. Now, however, for all the admiration contained therein, his dark eyes showed only impersonal interest. As if he was contemplating a stranger.
“I dunno if you usually dress like this, just comin’ to town, Miss Clark, but you’re a mighty nice sight to see. Awful pretty, if I might be so bold.”
Bold! When he had come very near, two years in the past, to being so much more!
“Sam!” she whispered in pure pain.
Somehow both had forgotten that he had not yet released his grip. His big hard hands were wrapped around her upper arms, preventing any escape; the heat of that clasp sank deep into her bones, surely enough to leave some mark as bruised and searing as any cowman’s brand.
Puzzlement etched its way across his dear, beloved face. Dark chestnut hair, in desperate need of a trim; dark brown eyes, dulled by the fog of memory; dark scruffy beard that lent him a ruffian’s air. Sudden realization of his position forced a release and a hesitant step backward.
“I do beg your pardon, ma’am,” he said formally. “I overlooked the fact that I am betrothed to be married. My behavior to’rd you was unacceptable, and I sincerely apologize.”
She had lost him. Through no fault of her own she had lost him, and her future looked bleak and despairing. Only one man existed, now and forever; whatever came, she would love Sam Marsden to the end of her days.
Now was not the time to let that overtake her, however. Pride straightened her spine and lifted her chin. “It’s of no import, Sam. Tell me, do you still play your pipe?”
“My pipe?”
“Yes. You used to cut a section from a willow branch, remember? And the bark was slippery, so that you could play the little openings. Your tunes sounded so—so sweet,” she said wistfully.
Was there a sudden spark in his eyes, seeing her for who she was, catching fire through that snatch of their past together?
“Haven’t done that at all since I got home,” he admitted. Shifting from one boot to the other, he stuffed both hands into his back pockets. Did she dare hope that, promised to another or not, he was doing his best to put temptation aside? “And not many willow trees up at—where I was…”
“Rock Island?” she asked quietly.
Sam cocked a brow in the old familiar way. “You’ve heard the name?”
“I have. And I’ve often wondered , since you—since you finally returned home, if—whether you—how you’ve managed to cope.”
“I’m doin’ all right.” His voice sounded defensive. Would he admit fear, loneliness, disgust, despair to anyone? Or would he hold all that deep inside, to fester like an unhealed wound?
“Have you been able to talk to anyone about your experiences?”
For just a moment, he appeared faintly alarmed. Then, turning his gaze to the open street around them, he inclined his shaggy head sideways. “You wanna sit down over there a minute or two? Or do you haveta go somewhere?”
Vickie let out a squeak. “Oh dear, my aunt’s medicine! I must just check—”
She, too, turned, to look up at the plate glass window. There stood Sophie, as if she were posing as a mannequin, smiling broadly and holding up a small bottle. Success
! She must have mislaid her tincture, but apparently she had found it in time to take the necessary dose and was feeling better. At least, according to the expression on her face.
“Seems to be okay,” said Sam, in an understatement.
“Very much so, thank goodness. Very well, Sam, let’s chat. And then I really must be on my way.” Because being with him, and knowing he would never be hers as promised, was truly more torment than she could bear. It would take every bit of her stamina just to endure the exquisite anguish of this accidental meeting.
“You all dressed up for some reason?”
Disgruntled, she glanced down at the full frowsy skirts. Once so pristine, now with dusty hem and—oh, horrors, was there a button now missing from the cuff? Could she never take care of her garments as they were meant to be, even something so grand as the attire for a wedding attendant?
Briefly she explained her purpose. By then he had deposited her upon a bench in the shade of an overhanging sycamore and taken up position opposite.
“You can sit, you know.”
He eyed the ballooning fabric, which encompassed the entire seat, with feigned apprehension. “Not on your life; I’m scared of that thing. Looks like it could up and swallow me whole.”
Vickie snickered. Astonishing, when she had thought never to know amusement again. Oh, Sam, Sam, my dear love, how I’ve missed you!
She leaned forward a little, a movement meant to draw him closer in conversation. If that also allowed a full inspection of warm cleavage very rarely revealed, so much the better.
“How are you feeling, Sam?”
His gaze shifted away. “I’m all right.”
She smiled up at him. “I suppose a great number of people have asked that of you. Perhaps they were truly interested; perhaps not. But I can assure you that I—I really do want to know. You have lived here around the Creek all your life, and we do have—we have a history…”
“A history?” The puzzled dark eyes resumed their intense concentration, skimming over her untidy coiffure, her sweet face, her lips so nearly matching the hue of that volume of fabric in which she was enveloped. “What d’ you mean?”
Her own puzzlement, in response, expressed itself with a slight frown. “Why—we were schoolmates, Sam. Remember how you teased me all those years? And made me cry?”
“Oh, no, ma’am, I couldn’ta made you cry. That woulda been ungentlemanly.”
“Well, you were nothing more than a boy, then. You did end up—you ended up redeeming yourself…later on…”
“Ah. Happy to hear that. I wasn’t sure just what…”
“But you didn’t answer my question, Sam. Have you any—um—physical impairment, from your years in the War? Has your head wound completely healed?”
“Didn’t exactly lose my manhood, if that’s what you wanna know,” he said wryly.
She was shocked. Yet, in a way, intrigued, that he should feel comfortable enough in her presence to even mention such an unmentionable subject. Or did he just not care? “That doesn’t even come close to what I wanted to know. And I assumed that there would be no—uh—problems in that department, since you plan on marrying my sister.”
“Yeah. Huh.” He glanced away again, scuffing the toe of one boot against the edge of boarded sidewalk. Was he unable to meet her frank, uncritical gaze?
“A happy day for you, I suppose.”
He shrugged. His big frame, having lost so much muscle mass and brawn during the Rock Island ordeal, still needed much fattening up and filling out. Would that she could be the one seeing to that! “Reckon so. Haven’t been informed yet.”
“Oh, Sam,” her protest involuntarily burst out. “That doesn’t sound like something you’re looking forward to. I’m sorry.”
“Nothin’ to be sorry about, Miss Clark. Fact of life. And, in my case, apparently this is somethin’ everybody wants to happen. You get married, you raise a family, you pay the bills, you die.”
Her heart felt as if it were cracking and breaking into tiny little blood-soaked pieces. Would his attitude have been so cynical, so uncaring, were it she in the role as his bride?
The bemused cast to his expression seemed almost a permanent part of the former light-hearted, easy-going Sam Marsden now. Had anyone else noticed, Vickie wondered, with a catch in her breath. Did anyone else pay attention to his moods, his silent crying out for support, his unspoken desire for a full partnership?
Some unknown there was about him that saddened her to the bones. That reminded her of something or someone elusive, just teasing at the edge of remembrance. Why didn’t he recall their past together, with all the good and the bad, the poignant and the humorous?
“I can’t imagine—”
“Samuel!”
Startled, both flinched at the imperious sound of that voice. As if they had been proven guilty of some wrongdoing, even though they were engaged in a perfectly innocent discourse, here in public, in plain sight of every passerby.
“Samuel!”
* * * * *
It was, of course, Jessica. Though Sophie, in front of the big front window, had tried to shield the young couple outside from an inside view, the bride-to-be had grown impatient. Some sixth sense had informed her that something untoward was going on, and she had decided to take matters into her own hands.
Realizing that her sister was enjoying a tête-à-tête with her very own intended, Jessie’s anger knew no bounds. Stomping across the room, she jerked open the door and stormed out into the street to let loose with a clarion yell: “Samuel!”
It felt quite satisfying to see both of them jerk to attention.
Grabbing her skirts, she hastened to the bench. If that wasn’t guilt on written all over their faces, she’d eat someone’s hat. “What exactly does this mean?”
“What does what mean?” asked Sam with an unexpected frown.
“You two—conniving behind my back!”
He gave a slow, puzzled glance around. Down the street, a lady properly hatted and gloved had paused outside the small bookstore, curious about the unusual noise. A farmer driving his buckboard rattled through the cross street, probably on the way to Kant Feed to pick up an order. Other than that, business on this leisurely weekday proceeded as usual.
“Not hardly behind anyone’s back,” Sam pointed out. “As you may have noticed, we’re right out in public. And it’s a perfectly innocent conversation, just passin’ the time of day.”
“I hardly think that you—”
“You’re makin’ more a spectacle of yourself than anything else,” he continued inexorably, “standin’ out here yellin’ thataway.”
Jessie’s jaw dropped.
During their brief times together Sam had rarely voiced an opinion, taken a stand on any issue, or even questioned whatever demand she had made. In private, Jess had felt gleeful and gratified; once they were properly wed, she just knew this man would be easily manipulated, and she would have and do exactly what she wanted. With the wealth of her inheritance as financial support, and her own plans for the wedding and beyond, what might she not accomplish?
His retort brought her up short, however, and her eyes narrowed. From where exactly had this cursory show of spirit come? Would it fizzle out and disappear once more? Or would she be forced to deal with an ever increasing display of bravado through the long and tedious months of their betrothal?
“Sam, dear.” She decided to try wheedling, which meant resting her cheek against his upper arm, and tap-dancing her fingers across the width of his chest. “Are you in town today so that we might buy my engagement ring?”
An Endless Love to Remember: A Historical Western Romance Book Page 13
