"Because I have never stopped loving either one of you," she added, and stepped back so abruptly he was left with his hands folded in midair. "Now show me your stable quickly so I can go see my cousin."
He did so in a tangle of emotions, her words shimmering along his nerve endings. Whatever it takes … do you understand? He feared that he did understand, but in the next instant her mercurial mood change made him wonder if he was right. As he showed her the office, which he had neatened for her arrival, and the stalls, which he'd cleaned, and the stock, which he'd curried, she was as breezy as she'd been while calling messages across the barn; as if her quieter, startling words had never been spoken. When the brief tour ended she stood motionless, watching him hitch a horse to a wagon. She did not try to disguise her keen study of him under any pretense of studying the interior of the barn but stood arrow straight with her hands pressed down along her skirts. Not so much as a muscle moved, save those with which she breathed. He moved about, completing his chore, avoiding her glance, feeling as he thought a piece of fruit must feel as it ripens on a tree—warm inside, pressing out, out against its own skin, expanding. She might have been the sun, ripening him.
It was her way. She was an observer, a listener, an imbiber. When they were young she had hauled him by the hand into her mother's side yard one night and said, "Shh! Edwin, listen! I believe I can hear the apples growing." And after a moment: "They grow by starlight, instead of by sunlight, you know."
"Fannie, don't be silly," he'd said.
"I'm not silly. It's true. I'll show you tomorrow."
The next day she had cut an apple in half cross-wise and shown him the star inside, formed by the seeds. "See? Starlight," she'd chided, and made a believer of him.
Perhaps now she was cataloging the changes in him. Whatever her thoughts, he grew uneasy while her eyes followed him as he moved around Gunpowder, a pure black gelding, whom he was hitching to the buckboard.
"Do your children know?"
Neither of them had spoken for so long he'd lost the train of conversation. For one startled moment he thought she meant about them—did his children know about himself and Fannie, twenty-two years ago?
"The children?" He stood with the gelding between them, his hands on the animal's broad, curved back.
"Yes, do they know she's dying?"
He released his breath with superb control so she could not guess his thoughts. "I believe Emily has guessed. Frankie's too young to dwell on it much."
"I want one thing understood. There'll be no talk of death as long as I'm in your house. She's alive, and as long as she is we must do her the honor of enhancing that life in whatever ways possible."
Their eyes met over the horse's back, carrying another unspoken vow of honor. Nothing had changed for either of them, but this was as close as they must come to saying it. Still, they plucked from the afternoon this one ripe moment to look truly into each other's eyes, to accept the creases added to their skin by the years, the paleness of her hair, the brush of silver in his; and to pledge silently never to allow their naked feelings to show like this again.
"You have my word, Fannie," he said quietly.
The sound of an approaching wagon interrupted as Emily and Charles pulled into the open doorway.
Emily spoke before Charles drew the rig to a halt. "Oh, she's here!" Emily bounced down and went straight to Fannie. "Hello, Fannie, I'm Emily."
"Well, of course you are. I'd have picked you out in a crowd of strangers." The mercurial Fannie was capable of shifting moods as the situation demanded and chattered gaily, "Edwin, she's the spitting image of you with those blue eyes and black hair. But the mouth I think is Josie's." Holding Emily's hands, she added, "My goodness, child, you're lovely. You got the best of both parents, I'd say."
Emily had never considered herself lovely, by anybody's yardstick. The compliment went straight to her heart and brought a moment of self-consciousness as she searched for a graceful response.
"Unfortunately, I didn't get Mother's domestic skills, so the entire family is overjoyed to see you here."
They all laughed and Emily turned to her father. "I'm sorry we're late, Papa. We went a little farther than I expected."
"No harm done."
"Fannie, you haven't met Charles." He had drawn up beside them and stepped from the rig. "Charles, this is Mother's cousin, Fannie Cooper. This is Charles Bliss."
"Charles … quite as I pictured you." She took stock of his neatly trimmed beard and gray eyes.
"How do you do, Miss Cooper."
"Now that's the last time I want to be called 'Miss Cooper.' I'm Fannie. Just Fannie." They, too, exchanged handclasps. "You realize, of course, that I know at what age you learned to walk on stilts and what kind of a student you were and what an excellent carpenter you are."
Charles laughed, readily charmed. "From Mrs. Walcott's letters, of course."
"Of course. And speaking of which, I've written one of my own telling her when to expect me and I'm not there, am I?"
Edwin spoke up. "Fannie and I were just leaving to collect her baggage and go on up to the house. Will you be coming along?"
"As soon as we put Pinky up and check Sergeant's foot. How is it, Papa?"
His startled expression turned momentarily sheepish. "I haven't looked. I was … well, I was giving Fannie a tour."
"I'll do it. You two go on and we'll be right along."
When Edwin tried to help Fannie clamber onto the buckboard, she brushed his hand aside and declared, "I'm limber as a willow switch, Edwin. Just help yourself up."
Emily watched them leave with an admiring glow in her eyes. "Isn't she wonderful, Charles?"
"She is. I don't know what I expected but in spite of her letters I pictured her more like your mother."
"She's as different from Mother as snow is from rain."
It was true. Edwin felt it even more sharply than his daughter. When Fannie saw his house from the outside she tipped her head back to glimpse the roof peak where a web of wheel-shaped gingerbread trim highlighted the fish-scale siding. "Why, Edwin, it's beautiful. Charles built this?"
"Charles and I. With a little fetching and carrying from Frankie and a surprising amount of help from Emily."
"Absolutely beautiful. I never knew you were so talented." It was more than Josie had ever said, for she'd taken the house as her due, and any appreciation she might have felt was eclipsed by her relief in not having to live in a dreary hovel.
"I built the wraparound porch so Josie could sit outside and face the sun at any time of day. And upstairs, there…" He pointed to the white-railed balcony contrasted against the black shingles. "A small veranda off our bedroom so she could step outside anytime she wanted."
Fannie, who had never owned a house of her own, thought, lucky, lucky Josie.
Edwin took Fannie in past the front parlor. Though her eyes scanned the clutter she made no comment.
"Josie is upstairs." He motioned her ahead of him and watched her bustle bounce and her long copper skirttail glide ahead of his boots as he followed with two grips. The first door on your left," he directed.
Inside, Josephine waited with excited eyes, her hands extended. "Fannie, dear Fannie. You're here at last."
"Joey."
Fannie rushed to the bed and they hugged.
"That awful name. I haven't … heard it for twenty years." Josephine lost her breath on a flurry of choked laughter.
"How your parents hated it when I called you that."
They parted and took stock of one another. Josephine said, "You look elegant."
Fannie retorted, "Dusty and battered from that Jurkey ride, more likely but I enjoyed Mr. McGiver immensely. And you look thin. Edwin said you've been having a bad time of it." She laid a hand on her cousin's cheek "Well I'm going to pamper you silly, just watch and see. Up to a point. I've actually learned how to cook—imagine that. But I cannot make pudding without scorching it so don't expect any. I'm fair at meat and vegetables, ho
wever, and devilishly good with shellfish, but wherever will we get shellfish out here in the mountains? Then there's bread … hmm…" Fanny gave her attention to tugging off her gloves. "I fear my bread is rather glutinous, but edible. Just barely. I'm always in too much of a rush to let it rise properly. You wouldn't happen to have a bakery in this town, would you?"
"I'm afraid not."
"Well, no worry. I can make biscuits light as swansdown. I know that's hard to believe after the way my mother threw her hands up in despair when she was trying to teach me my way around a kitchen." Fannie bounced off the bed and toured the bedroom, glancing at the dark, handsome furniture, batting not a lash at the spare cot. "Light as swansdown, I swear. Shall I bake you some for supper?"
"That would be wonderful."
"And when I put them before you, you'd better eat!" Fannie pointed at her cousin's nose. "Because I've brought along my bicycle and I fully intend to get you strong enough to ride on it."
"Your bicycle! But, Fannie, I can't ri…ride a bicycle!"
"Why ever not?"
"Because…" Josephine spread her hands. "I'm a … a consumptive."
"Well, if that isn't the frailest excuse I've ever heard, I don't know what is' All that means is that you've got weak lungs. You want to make them strong you get on that set of wheels and make them work harder. Have you ever seen a blacksmith with puny arms? I should say not. So what can be so different about lungs? It'll be the best thing for you, to get out in the fresh mountain air and rebuild your strength."
Looking on, Edwin thought there hadn't been so much merry chatter in this bedroom since it had been built. Fannie's gaiety was infectious; already Josie's face wore a dim hint of pink, her eyes were happy, her lips smiling. Perhaps he tended to mollycoddle her and in doing so, encouraged her to feel worse.
The young people arrived; they'd picked up Frankie somewhere along the way and from below came his voice as he led the trio up the steps. "Hey, everybody, there's a bicycle downstairs!"
He burst into the bedroom, followed by Emily and Charles.
"It's mine," Fannie announced.
Edwin stopped his son's headlong charge into the room. "Frankie, I want you to meet your cousin Fannie. Fannie, this is our son Frank, who smells a little fishy right now, if my nose doesn't deceive me."
Fannie extended her hand nonetheless. "I'm pleased to meet you, Master Frank. How long would you guess your legs are?" She leaned back to take a visual measure. "They'd have to be—oh, say, a good twenty-four inches for you to ride the bicycle with any ease at all."
"Ride it? Me? Honest?"
"Honest." Fannie held up a palm as if taking an oath and charmed yet another member of the Walcott family.
Emily could not take her eyes off Fannie. She was a dazzling creature, the same age as Mother, yet years younger in action, temperament, and interest. Her voice was animated, her movements energetic. She had a contumacious look about her—that kinky apricot hair, perhaps, frizzing about her face like lantern-lit steam around a newborn colt—that made her seem untrammeled by the gravity that made most women dull and uninteresting. Her eyes constantly shone with interest and her hands never remained still when she talked. She was worldly: she rode bicycles and had traveled alone clear from Massachusetts, and had boated under sail to a place called Nantucket where she gigged for clams; and she had attended the opera, had seen Emma Abbott and Brignoli starring in The Bohemian Girl, and had had her fortune told by a palm reader named Cassandra. The list went on and on—tales from her letters that Emily had been absorbing ever since she was old enough to read. How incredible to think such a worldling was here, and would stay, would sleep in Emily's own bed where they could talk in the dark after the lanterns were extinguished. Already the house seemed transformed by her presence. Gaiety came with her, a carnival atmosphere that had been so badly needed. Mother, too, had fallen under Fannie's spell. She had forgotten her illness for the moment; it was plain on her face. And Papa stood back with his arms crossed, smiling, relieved at last of a portion of his worries. For bringing all this to the Walcott family within an hour of her arrival, Emily loved Fannie already.
Just then Papa boosted himself away from the chiffonier and said, "Speaking of bicycles, I'd best get Fannie's in the shed and bring her trunks up, too. Charles, perhaps you could give me a hand."
"Just a minute, sir…" Charles stopped Edwin with a hand on his arm.
"Sir?" Edwin's eyebrows elevated and amusement quirked his mouth. "Charles, since when do you call me sir?"
"It seemed appropriate today. I thought as long as we're all together, and Mrs. Walcott is feeling so well, and Fanny's just arrived and the mood is festive, I might as well add to it." He took Emily's hand and drew her against his side. "I want you all to know that I've asked Emily to be my wife and she's accepted … at last."
Myriad reactions broke through Emily: a sinking sense of finality now that the announcement was made, contraposed by gladness at the pleased look on her mother's and father's faces, and amusement at Frankie's reaction.
"Yippee! It's about time." Everyone in the room laughed and exchanged hugs. Josephine wiped a tear from her eye, and Papa clapped Charles on the arm and pumped his hand and gave him a solid thump on the back. Fannie kissed Charles's cheek and in the middle of it all someone knocked on the door downstairs.
"Emileee?" It was Tarsy, calling to be heard above the happy voices "Can I come in?"
Emily went to the top of the stairs and shouted, "Come in, Tarsy we're up here!"
Tarsy appeared below, excited, as usual. "Is she here?"
"Yes."
"I couldn't wait to meet her!" She started up the steps. "Are all those bags outside hers?"
"Every one. And she's exactly like her letters."
Another devotee fell under Fannie's spell the moment introductions were performed. "But, of course," said Fannie, "Emily's friend, the barber's daughter, the girl with the prettiest hair in town. I've already been told to expect to see a lot of you around here." She laid a touch on Tarsy's golden curls, and gave the proper amount of attention before turning the focus back toward the recent announcement. "But you haven't heard Emily and Charles's news, have you?"
"What?" Tarsy turned to her friend with a blank, receptive expression.
"Charles has asked me to marry him and I've accepted."
Tarsy reacted as she did to all excitement: giddily. She threw herself on Emily with nearly enough force to break bones, and went into raptures of oohs and gushes of felicitations; and overtook Charles next, kissing his cheek and exclaiming she knew they'd be sooooo happy and she was positively green with envy (which wasn't true, Emily knew); then threw her attention back to Fannie with amusing abruptness.
"Tell me all about your ride on the stagecoach."
Fannie told, and Tarsy stayed for supper, which turned out to be a picnic on Josephine's bed, at Fannie's insistence. She declared Joey was simply not to be left at the height of this celebration while the others went downstairs. They would bring the festivities to her.
So Papa and Fannie and Frankie sat on the big bed while Emily, Charles, and Tarsy took Papa's cot and balanced their plates on their knees. They all supped on creamed peas over Fannie's swansdown biscuits and Frankie's latest catch, fried to the texture of a bootheel, for which Fannie laughingly refused to apologize: "The biscuits are perfection itself. The rest I'll get better at in time." And afterward Emily announced they'd all draw straws to see who'd help with dishes. Frankie lost and his mouth grew sulky. Fannie scolded, "Better get used to it, lad, because I intend to draw straws every night and you'll have to expect to draw the short one occasionally. Now let's get going and leave your father and mother a little time to themselves."
Charles said he had an early day tomorrow and bid them good night, kissing Emily briefly on the mouth when she saw him out to the porch. But she was too impatient to linger long with Charles. Fannie was in the kitchen, and where Fannie was, Emily wanted to be.
The girl
s let Frankie off the hook and said they'd do dishes tonight because Tarsy was nowhere near ready to go home and leave Fannie's magical presence. Though Fannie had good intentions of doing a share of the cleanup work she somehow never got her hands wet. They were occupied instead gesturing and illustrating as she told enchanting tales of attending Tony Pastor's Vaudeville Emporium, where the dancers twirled umbrellas and sang "While Strolling through the Park One Day." She sang the song in a clear-pitched voice and performed a dance around the kitchen table, twirling the stove poker as if it were an umbrella, filling the girls' heads with vivid pictures.
Fannie seemed to recall that she was here to do dishes, wiped one, then forgot to wipe another as she launched into the intriguing account of her recently acquired passion for archery. She illustrated by stepping on one corner of the dish towel, stretching the diagonal corner high, and drawing back on it as if seating an arrow and taking aim. When the arrow hit its mark on the kitchen stovepipe she snapped the towel around her neck as if it were a fur collar and declared she had, to date, participated in three tournaments, the last of which won her a loving cup and a kiss on the hand from an Austrian prince. And as soon as she got back East, where more and more sidewalks were being laid, she intended to buy herself a pair of the astonishing things called roller skates and give them a try.
Fannie seemed amazed when she realized the dishes were all put away.
"Gracious, I didn't do a one!"
"We don't care," Tarsy said. "Tell us more."
They trailed upstairs where the stories continued as Fannie began unpacking a trunk, winning a series of near-swoons from Tarsy as she pulled out dress after dress, more glamorous than anything Sheridan had ever seen.
"The last time I wore this one, I swore I never would again." Fannie held up a dress with lace rosettes running diagonally from breast to hip. "We were playing parlor games and it gave me away."
"Parlor games?" Tarsy's eyes danced with interest.
"They're the rage back East."
"What kind?"
"Oh, many different kinds. There's whist and dominoes and hangman. And of course, the men-and-women kind."
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