During the final chorus, Fannie raised her face to the ceiling and bellowed. "Are you singing, Joey?"
In that instant Edwin felt a burst of renewed love for Fannie.
He made it upstairs—two at a time—before the final chorus died and found Josie, indeed, singing softly to herself on the veranda in the sun, with a smile on her face.
Sensing him behind her, she stopped and smiled self-consciously over her shoulder.
"Edwin, you're home early."
"I left a note on the door at the livery. I thought they might need my help downstairs, but it doesn't look like it." He stepped onto the veranda and went down on one knee beside her chair, squeezing her hand, which still held the polishing rag and spoon. "Oh, Josie, it's so wonderful to hear you singing."
"I feel so much better, Edwin." Her smile reiterated her words. "I think I can go downstairs tonight … for a while anyway, and greet Emily's guests."
"That's wonderful, Josie…" He squeezed her hand again. "Just wonderful."
Looking into her eyes he recalled their own betrothal party. How he had despaired, and how he'd hidden it. But their life hadn't been so bad after all. They'd had twenty good healthy years before she'd grown ill, and from those years had come two beautiful children, and a lovely house, and a deep respect for one another. And if their relationship had not been as intimate or demonstrative as he'd hoped, perhaps it was partly his fault. He should have admired her more, complimented, wooed, touched. Because he hadn't, he did so now.
"You look very lovely sitting here in the sun." He took the spoon from her hand and fitted his palm to hers, entwining their fingers. "I'm so glad I came home early."
She blushed and dropped her eyes. But her glance lifted in surprise when he turned his head and kissed her palm. With her free hand she tenderly touched his bearded cheek.
"Dear Edwin," she said fondly.
Downstairs the piano stopped and laughing voices drifted off to the kitchen. For a while, both Edwin and Josephine were happier than they had been in years.
* * *
Chapter 6
«^»
With two hours to spare before the guests began arriving, the house was in perfect order. The finger sandwiches were sliced, the cakes frosted, and the brandy punch mixed. Tarsy had gone home to change clothes; Josephine, her hair freshly washed, was resting; in the kitchen, Edwin was combing Frankie's hair and giving him strict orders about allowing Earl no more than two sandwiches before getting him out of the house and over to Earl's, where the boys would spend the night.
Upstairs in the west bedroom Fannie was having a grand time creating a mess, strewing dresses from her trunks like a rainbow across Emily's bed and rocker.
"Green?" She whisked a silky frock against Emily's front. It was pale as sea-foam and trimmed with bugle beads. Emily scarcely got a glimpse of it before it was gone. "No, no, it does nothing for your coloring." Fannie tossed it onto the pile, while Emily's eyes followed it longingly.
Next Fannie plucked up a splash of yellow. "Ah … saffron. Saffron will set off your hair." She plastered the dress to Emily, gripped her shoulders, and whirled her to face the mirror.
Emily found the yellow even more inviting than the green. "Oh, it's beautiful."
"It's good … still … mmm…" Fannie lay a finger beside her mouth and studied Emily thoughtfully. "No, I think not. Not tonight. We'll save it for another time." The becoming yellow dress went flying while Emily disappointedly watched it hit the bed and slide to the floor in a puddle of material. "Tonight it's got to be the absolute perfect frock … mmm…" Fanny tapped her lips, perused the jumble on the bed, and abruptly spun toward the closet. "I've got it!" She fell to her knees and dragged out another trunk, thumped the lid back, and scavenged through it like a dog disinterring a bone.
"Pink!" Kneeling, Fannie held it high—a dress as true hued as a wild rose. "The perfect color for you." She stood and whacked it against her knees, then whisked the rustly creation against Emily's front. "Would you look at how that girl can wear pink! I never could. I don't know why I bought this thing. It makes me look like a giant freckle. But you, with your black hair and dark complexion…"
Even wrinkled, the dress was stunning, with a dropped neckline bordered by embroidered tea roses, wondrous bouffant elbow-length sleeves and a matching pouff at the spine. When it shifted, it spoke—a sibilant whisper telling of Eastern soirees where such frocks were customary. The dress was more beautiful than anything Emily had ever owned, but as she gazed wistfully at her reflection she was forced to admit, "I'd feel conspicuous in something this eye-catching."
"Nonsense!" Fannie retorted.
"I've never had a dress this pretty. Besides, Mother says a lady should wear subdued colors."
"And I always told her, Joey, you're old before your time." Conspiratorially, Fannie added, "Let your mother choose all the subdued colors she wants for herself, but this is your party. You may wear whatever you choose. Now what do you think?"
Emily gazed at the strawberry-pink confection, trying to imagine herself wearing it downstairs in the parlor as the guests arrived. She could well imagine Tarsy wearing such a dress—Tarsy with her blond curls, pouting mouth, pretty face, and undeniably voluptuous figure. But herself? Her hair might be dark, but it had not been curled since she was old enough to say no to sleeping in rags. And her face? It was too long and dark-skinned, and her eyebrows were as straight and unattractive as heel marks on a floor. Her eyes and nose, she guessed, were passable, but her mouth was less than ordinary, and her teeth overlapped on top, which had always made her self-conscious when she smiled. No, her face and body were much better suited to britches and suspenders than to rose-colored frocks with bouffant sleeves.
"I think it's a little too feminine for me."
Fannie caught Emily's eye in the mirror. "You wanted to make Mr. Jeffcoat eat his words, didn't you?"
"Him! I don't give a rip what Mr. Jeffcoat thinks."
Fannie whisked the dress into the air and brushed at the wrinkles with her hand. "I don't believe you. I think you would love to appear downstairs in this creation and knock his eyeballs out. Now, what do you say?"
Emily reconsidered. If it worked, it would be better than spitting in Tom Jeffcoat's eye, and she had never been one to resist a challenge.
"All right. I'll do it … if you're sure you don't mind."
"Heavens, don't be silly! I'll never wear it again."
"But it's all wrinkles. How will we—"
"Leave that to me." Fannie flipped the dress over her shoulder and went off to shout over the banister, "Edwin, I'll need some fuel … kerosene, preferably! Coal oil if that's all you have." A moment later she stuck her head back into Emily's bedroom. "Brush your hair, light the lantern, and heat the curling tongs. I'll be right back." Again she disappeared, trailing a call. "Edwiiiiin?"
Within minutes she returned with Edwin in tow. From the depths of a trunk she produced a hunk of steel she introduced as a steamer. She held it while Edwin filled it with coal oil and water, and when it was lit and hissing, she put him to work steaming his daughter's dress while Fannie herself took over the curling tongs and arranged Emily's hair.
Submitting to her cousin, Emily watched her transformation while Papa, happy and humming, exclaimed as the wrinkles fell out of the pink satin; Mother came from across the hall dressed in a fine midnight blue serge dress, with her hair neatly coiled, and sat on the rocking chair to watch. Clamping a tress of hair in the hot tongs, Fannie described the newest hairdos from the East—crimps or waves, which would Emily prefer?
Emily chose crimps, and when the hairdo was done, piled atop her head like a dark puffy nest, she stared at herself disbelievingly, with her heart jumping in excitement. Standing behind Emily, inspecting her handiwork in the mirror, Fannie yelled, "Frankie, where are you?"
Frankie appeared in the doorway behind them. "What?"
"Go downstairs and pick a sprig of impatiens and bring them here—and don't ask me
what they are. Those tiny pink flowers beside the front door!"
When he returned, and when the delicate blossoms were nestled in the misty-looking curls above Emily's left ear, Frankie stood back with big eyes and open lips, exclaiming in astonishment, "Wowwww, Emily, do you ever look pretty!"
At eight P.M. she stood before the dining room mirror feeling pretty, yes—but conspicuous. She dipped down to peer at her reflection and glimpsed her flushed cheeks. Goodness! It was a little breathtaking to see one's self in pink and crimps for the first time. She touched her chest—so much of it was bare—and stared.
She had never spared time for feminizing herself; she'd had no reason. Most girls primped and preened to attract the attentions of men, but she'd had Charles's attention forever. Staring at her reflection, she felt a sting of guilt, for it was not only Charles she wanted to impress tonight, but Tom Jeffcoat—that jackal who'd called her a tomboy. What pleasure she'd take in making him eat his words. All the while Fannie had been fussing over her Emily had gloated, imagining it.
But now, peering in the dining room mirror with her stomach trembling, she feared she'd be the one who felt awkward, instead of him. Fannie had powdered her face and chest with a light dusting of flour, and had tinted her cheeks by wet ting swatches of red crepe paper, then rubbing them lightly on her skin. "Lick your lips," Fannie had ordered. "Now clamp them hard over the paper." Again … magic! But it was very uncertain magic, for a mere touch of the tongue removed it. Staring at her pink lips, Emily scolded herself silently: So help me, if you lick them before Jeffcoat arrives, you deserve every name he's called you!
"Emily?"
Emily jumped and spun around.
"Oh, Charles, I didn't hear you come in."
He stared as if he'd never seen her before. His cheeks became pink and his mouth dropped open, but not a word came out.
Emily laughed nervously. "Well, gracious, Charles, you act as if you don't recognize me."
"Emily?" Astonished and pleased, he let out the single word while moving slowly toward her, as if permission might possibly be required. "What have you done to yourself?"
She glanced down and plucked at her voluminous skirts, making them rustle like dry leaves. "Fannie did it."
He took her hands and held her at arm's length, turning them both in a half-circle. "Aren't I the lucky one? The prettiest girl in town."
"Oh, Charles, I'm not either, so stop your fibbing."
"That dress … and your hair … I never saw your hair so pretty before."
She felt herself blushing profusely.
Holding her hands, Charles let his eyes drift down over her floured chest and her corseted waist. She grew even more uneasy under his obviously delighted regard. "Oh, Emily, you look beautiful," he said softly, dipping his head as if to kiss her.
She feinted neatly aside. "Fannie colored my lips with crepe paper, but it comes off easily. I wouldn't want you looking marked." Though Charles politely straightened, he continued holding her hands and studying her with ardent eyes the way other men often studied Tarsy. Again Emily felt a pant of guilt. After all, it was fifteen minutes before their engagement party, and her fiancé wanted nothing more than an innocent stolen kiss. Yet she put him off, more concerned about keeping her lip coloring intact so she could make an impression on Tom Jeffcoat. She assuaged her guilt by telling herself that when she was married to Charles she would kiss him any time he wanted, and would make up for all the times she'd coyly withdrawn.
The guests began arriving, and Charles and Emily went to join the family in the parlor, where Mama had insisted upon having a receiving line. Edwin had carried and seated Josephine in the bay window, where he stood between her and Fannie, introducing the latter to each new arrival, and announcing Charley and Emily's engagement with great alacrity. The house filled fast with businessmen and their wives, neighbors, fellow church members, owners of outlying ranches, Reverend Vasseler, Earl Rausch and his parents, Mr. and Mrs. Loucks. There were young people, too, all acquaintances of Emily's and Charles's—Jerome Berryman, Patrick Haberkorn, Mick Stubbs; and girls who'd come with their parents—Ardis Corbeil, Mary Ess, Lybee Ryker, Tilda Awk.
When Tarsy arrived she left her parents at the door and rushed directly to Emily. "Oh, Emily, you look stunning, is he here yet?"
"Thank you and no, he's not."
"Does my hair look all right? Do you think I should have worn my lavender dress? I didn't think my mother and father would ever get ready! I almost wore a hole in the rug, waiting for them. Poke me if you see him come in when I'm not looking. Fannie says there's going to be dancing later on. Oh, I hope he'll ask me!"
Emily found herself aggravated by Tarsy's gushing over the wonders of the mighty Jeffcoat, and further annoyed by the realization that she herself was unable to stop her own fixation with the front door. By 8:30 he still had not walked through it. Her lips felt stiff from smiling without rubbing them together. Though she was thirsty and tense, and though Charles had brought her a cup of punch, she would not touch the cup to her lips. Her ribs itched from the corset Fannie had forced her into, but she was afraid to scratch for fear he'd walk in and catch her at it.
That swine was thirty minutes late!
So help me, Jeffcoat, if you don't come after all this I'll make you suffer just like I'm suffering!
He arrived at 8:45.
Emily had intended to have Charles at her side, and a line of guests moving past them. She'd intended to give Tom Jeffcoat the full two seconds' worth of attention he deserved before scattering her courtesy to the others waiting in line. She'd intended to show him how little he mattered, so little that she need not even be caustic with him any longer.
But as it turned out, by 8:45 the receiving line had already broken up, Charles was in the dining room with his back to her, the guests were mingling, and she stood in the middle of the room alone. Tom Jeffcoat's eyes found her immediately.
For several uncomfortable seconds they took measure of one another, then he began moving across the room toward her. She felt an unwelcome panic and the absurd pounding of her heart—hard enough, she feared, to shake the flour off her chest. Please, God, don't let it fall off!
She watched him approach, feeling trapped and frantic, tricked by some unkind fortune who'd painted him more attractive than she wanted him to be, who'd given him a preference for clean-shavenness and blessed him with beautiful black hair, startlingly handsome blue eyes, a full, attractive mouth, and an easy saunter. She damned Tarsy for pointing it all out, and Charles for abandoning her when she needed him, and her own stupid heart, which refused to stop knocking in her chest. She noted, as if distanced from herself, that his suit was faintly wrinkled, his boots by contrast shiny and new, and that Tarsy had appeared in the dining room archway and was staring at him like a drooling basset hound. But his eyes remained riveted upon Emily as he crossed the room.
By the time he reached her, she felt as if she were choking. He stopped before her, so tall she had to raise her chin to meet his eyes.
"Good evening. Miss Walcott," he said in a painfully polite voice.
"Good evening, Mr. Jeffcoat."
He let his eyes whisk down and up once, without lingering anywhere, but when they returned to hers he wore a faint grin, which she longed to slap from his face.
"Thank you for inviting me." But they both knew she hadn't invited him; Charles had. "I understand congratulations are in order. Charles told me about your engagement."
"Yes," she replied, glancing away from his eyes, which, though holding a surface politeness, seemed to be laughing at her. "We've known each other forever. It was only a matter of time before we named a date."
"So Charles tells me. A year from now, is it?"
"Give or take a month or two." She was, after all, no good at guile; her responses came out brusque and cool.
"A pleasant time of year for a wedding," he observed conversationally, proving himself much better than she at observing the amenities. Her tongue seemed
to be bonded to the top of her mouth as she stared at anything in the room but Tom Jeffcoat. After several beats of silence, he added, "Charles is … ecstatic."
His pause injected the remark with dubious undertones, and she felt herself coloring. "Help yourself to punch and sandwiches anytime you want, Mr. Jeffcoat. I'd best talk to some of the other guests." But when she moved he caught her lightly by an arm.
"Are you forgetting? I haven't met your mother yet."
He hadn't said a word about her appearance. Not one word! And damn him for making her lose her composure. She dropped her glance to the hand that sent an unwarranted sizzle up her arm, then pierced him with a haughty look. "You're wrinkling my sleeve, Mr. Jeffcoat."
"I apologize." He dropped her elbow immediately, and ordered, "Introduce me to your mother, Miss Walcott."
"Certainly." She spun to find that her mother had been watching them all the while, and for a heartbeat she froze. When Jeffcoat touched her politely on the back she shot forward. "Mother, this is Charles's friend, Tom Jeffcoat. You remember, Papa was talking about him during supper the other night?"
"Mr. Jeffcoat…" Queenlike, Josephine presented her frail hand. "Edwin's competitor."
He bowed over it graciously. "Fellow businessman, I hope. If I didn't think there was enough business in Sheridan for both of us I'd have settled someplace else."
"Let us hope you're right. Of course, any friend of Charles's and Emily's is welcome in our home."
"Thank you, Mrs. Walcott. It's a beautiful house." He glanced around. "I can't wait to have my own."
"Charles and Edwin built it, of course."
"Charles will be building mine, too, as soon as the barn is done."
"What's this we hear about a turntable in your barn?"
He laughed. "Oh, Charles has been talking?"
"Mostly Frankie."
"Ah, Frankie, our young apprentice…" He chuckled fondly. "The turntable is a whim, Mrs. Walcott, nothing more than a whim."
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