Fannie sailed up on the tail end of the comment. "What's a whim? Hello, Tom."
He turned and let his hands be captured. "Hello, Fannie."
"You two have met?" inquired Emily, surprised.
"Yes, this morning." Fannie slipped her arm through Tom's as if they were old friends while he smiled down at her upraised face.
"She was out for a bicycle ride and stopped by my place to introduce herself."
"I'm so glad you've come. Have you talked to Charles yet?"
"No, I was just heading over."
"Oh, and here's Tarsy. Tarsy, you've met Tom already, haven't you?" Tarsy's hand shot out fast enough to create a draft. He bowed over it gallantly.
"Miss Fields, how nice to see you again. You're looking lovely tonight."
"Why don't you take him over and see that he gets a cup of punch?" Fannie suggested to the blonde.
Tarsy appropriated Tom's arm and gave him a 150-candlepower smile while leading him away, chiding, "Shame on you for being late. I was about to give up hope."
Emily steamed, watching them move off toward Charles. Miss Fields, you're looking lovely tonight! Wasn't he just oozing charm?
She watched all night while men and women alike succumbed to it. He moved among the houseful of guests with singular effortlessness, comfortable meeting strangers, quick to pick up conversational threads, to win slaps on the back from the men and charming smiles from the ladies.
Reverend Vasseler shook his hand heartily and thanked him for getting the young boys to help at the church. The young boys themselves followed him, avid-eyed, and asked when his turntable would be ready. The mothers with unmarried daughters invited him to dinner. The ranchers with stock for sale invited him to look over their horseflesh. Fannie made plans to teach him how to ride her bicycle. Charles spent more time with him than with his bride-to-be. And Tarsy clung to his arm like a barnacle.
Meanwhile, Emily had one of the most miserable evenings of her life.
When the punch bowl was half-empty and the first wave of socializing past, Fannie called upon Edwin to make a betrothal toast. He filled Josephine's glass and his own, handed drinks to Charles and Emily, and stood in the bay window with his arm around his daughter.
"Before the evening gets away from us," he addressed his guests, "Emily's mother and I want you all to know how happy we are over the announcement of Emily's engagement. We've known Charles here since…" He turned to glance affectionately at his future son-in-law. "How long has it been, Charles?" He turned back to his guests. "Well, since he was wiping his nose on his shirtsleeve, anyway." Everyone laughed.
"For those of you who may not know it, his parents were our dear friends back in Philadelphia, friends we still miss, and we wish they could be here with us tonight." He cleared his throat and went on. "Well, for years Charles and Emily have been running in and out of our house together. I think we've fed him as many meals as we've fed our own two. I seem to recall back around the time they were waist-high or so she stole his pet frog and left it in a cricket box until it was flat and hard as a silver dollar, and Charles—if memory serves—beat her up and gave her a black eye."
After another ripple of mirth Edwin continued: "But they worked it all out and, believe it or not, Charles came to me when he was just about eye level to my chin and announced very seriously…" Edwin paused to study the contents of his wineglass. "'Mr. Walcott.'" He lifted his face like an orator. "'I want you to know that I'm going to marry Emily as soon as we're old enough.' I remember trying hard not to laugh." Edwin turned toward Charles with a rubicund glow on his cheeks. "Good heavens, Charles, do you realize your voice hadn't decided yet at that point whether it wanted to be bass or soprano?" After more laughter Edwin grew serious.
"Well, it was good news then and it's good news now. Sometimes it's hard to believe our little Emily is all grown up. But Emily, honey…" He squeezed her shoulders and gazed adoringly into her face. "A year from now when we make a toast to the bride and groom, you know you'll have your mother's and my blessings. We already think of Charles as our son." Edwin raised his glass, inviting his guests to follow suit. "To Charles and Emily … and their future happiness."
"Hear, hear!"
"To Charles and Emily!"
Salutations filled the room. Edwin kissed Emily's right temple and Charles kissed her left. Josephine reached up from her chair and took Emily's hand. As she leaned down to kiss her mother's cheek Emily felt small for having been so sulky all night long and promised herself she would throw herself into the spirit of the party for the remainder of the evening. As she straightened she saw Tom Jeffcoat studying her. He raised his glass in a silent salute and emptied it, watching her over the rim of his glass.
The brandy in her stomach felt as if it had been touched by a match. Confused, she turned her attention to Charles.
"I'm warm, Charles. Could we step outside for a few minutes?"
But out on the porch she discovered that Charles had imbibed enough brandy to make him distinctly amorous. He took her around the corner of the porch, flattened her against the wall, and removed all traces of Fanny's handiwork from her lips, then tried to do the same with the flour on her chest. But she caught his hand and ordered, "No, Charles. Anyone could come out."
He caught her head in both hands, kissing her insistently, passionately, and she realized her mistake in coming outside with him, dressed in Fannie's dress, when he'd been drinking. In the end, she had to snap at him. "Charles, I said no!"
For a moment he glared at her, frustrated, looking as if he wanted to either shake her or drag her off the porch, away from the window lights, and make their engagement official with far more than a paltry kiss. She watched him gather composure until finally he stepped back and drew a shaky breath. "You're right. You go back in and I'll follow in a minute."
When she reentered the parlor her cheeks were flushed and she had lost the impatiens from her hair. Father was carrying Mother upstairs, Fannie was playing the piano, and Tom Jeffcoat was watching the doorway with rapt absorption.
Their eyes met and she felt again a flash of attraction for him, felt as if he could divine everything that had transpired on the porch. Were her lips puffy? Did the path of Charles's hand show? Did she look as kissed clean and defloured as she felt?
Well, it was no business of Tom Jeffcoat's what she did with her fiancé. She lifted her chin and turned away.
Though she avoided him for the remainder of the evening, she knew where he was each moment, whom he talked with, how many times he laughed with Tarsy, and how many times with Charles. She knew, too, exactly how many times he studied with Charles's new fiancée in her borrowed pink dress when he thought she wasn't aware.
Shortly before midnight Fannie sat down at the piano and struck into the mellifluent strains of Strauss's Blue Danube and called everyone to dance. The married couples did, but the young people held back, the males declaring they didn't know how, the females wishing the men would learn. Fannie leapt from the piano stool and scolded, "Nonsense! Anyone can dance. We'll have a lesson!" She made everyone form a circle, experienced dancers interspersed with novices, and taught them the steps of the waltz, singing all the while. Da da da da dum … Dum-dum! Dum-dum! Guiding the unbroken ring of feet first forward, then back, first left, then right, she made everyone vocalize the familiar Viennese waltz. Da da da da dum … Dum-dum! Dum-dum! And while they sang and waltzed she chose a partner and drew him into the center—Patrick Haberkorn, who blushed and moved clumsily, but gave in to Fannie good-naturedly.
"Just keep singing," she instructed in Patrick's ear, "and forget about your feet except to pretend they're leading mine instead of following them." When Patrick was moving reasonably smoothly she danced him to Tilda Awk and negotiated the transition of partners. One after another she took the young men and showed them how fun dancing could be. When she had trained the feet of Tom Jeffcoat she turned him over to Tarsy Fields. When she'd done the same for Charles, she paired him off with Emily. A
nd when all were matched and only Edwin remained, she opened her arms to him and became his partner, hiding the fact that her heart swelled at being in his arms at last, and that her laugh was only a facade for the intense love she felt. Edwin obliged, sweeping her around the parlor as together they sang Da da da da dum … dumdum!
Less than a minute they danced before Fannie reluctantly left him and slid back onto the piano stool and called out, "Change partners!"
Shuffling and confusion ensued, and when it settled Emily found herself in her father's arms. He was smiling and smart-stepping as he led her.
"Are you having a good time, honey?"
"Yes, Papa. Are you?"
"The best."
"I didn't know you could dance."
"I haven't done it in years. Your mother never cared to."
"Do you think we're keeping her awake?"
"Of course. But she told me she would enjoy listening."
"I think she had a good time tonight."
"I know she did."
"She seemed stronger, and her cheeks were actually pink."
"It's Fannie. Fannie is a miracle worker."
"I know. I'm so happy she's here."
"So am I."
"Change partners!"
"Oops!" Papa said. "Here you go."
Emily whirled around and found herself with Pervis Berryman, short and broad as a washtub, but a surprisingly agile dancer. He congratulated her on her engagement and said the party was just what this town needed and wasn't it good to see the young people dancing this way?
"Change partners!"
Pervis turned her over to Tarsy's father, whose hair was parted down the middle and slicked flat with pomade. He smelled like his barber shop—slightly soapy, slightly perfumed—and his waxed mustache twitched when he talked. He, too, congratulated her on her engagement, told her she was getting a hell of a good man, and told her that Tarsy was so excited about the party tonight she'd asked permission to have one of her own next Saturday.
"Change partners!"
Emily twirled around and found herself in the arms of Tom Jeffcoat.
"Hiya, tomboy," he said, grinning.
"You insufferable wretch," she returned pleasantly.
"Ha-ha-ha!" He laughed at the ceiling.
"I'll get even with you yet."
"For what? I've been on my best behavior tonight, haven't I?"
"I don't think you know what good behavior is."
"Now, Emily, don't start fights. I promised Charles I'd do my best to get along with you."
"You and I will never get along, and you know it perfectly well. You also know that if it weren't for Charles you wouldn't be in this house right now."
"Do you practice being mouthy or does it just come naturally?"
"Do you practice insulting women or does it just come naturally?"
"Hostesses are supposed to be polite to their guests."
"I am. To my guests."
"You know, Charles and I get along remarkably well. I have a feeling he and I are destined to be friends. If you're going to marry him, don't you think we should try to grin and bear each other—for his sake?"
"You already grin more than I can bear."
"But we'll be bumping into each other at occasions like this for … well, who knows how long?"
It was essentially what Fannie had said, but he need not know that.
Jeffcoat went on. "Take for instance next Saturday night. Tarsy is planning another party and we'll probably end up dancing together again."
"I hope not. You're a terrible dancer."
"Tarsy doesn't think so."
"Get off my toes, Mr. Jeffcoat. Tarsy Fields has never danced before in her life. How would she know?"
"You've never danced before either, so how would you know?"
"Look…" She pulled back and flattened her skirt with one hand. "You've undoubtedly scuffed the toe of Fannie's shoe."
He glanced down briefly, then resumed dancing. "Fannie? So that's where you got the clothes."
"Not that you noticed."
"Did you want me to?"
"You're the one who called me a tomboy!"
"After you called me shabby. I dress the way I do because it's the most sensible when I work."
"So do I."
Their eyes met and each gave the other a begrudging point.
"So what do you say, should we call a truce? For Charles's sake?"
She shrugged and glanced aside indifferently.
"He tells me you're going to be a veterinarian."
"Yes, I am."
"Those were some of your papers I saw at the livery stable that day?"
"I was studying."
"You think you're strong enough?"
"Strong enough?" She tossed him a puzzled glance.
"To treat farm animals. It can take a surprising amount of strength."
"Sometimes a smaller hand and a thinner arm can be an advantage Have you ever pulled a calf?"
"No, only foals."
"Then you know."
Yes, he did. And he understood her reasoning.
"So you know a lot about animals."
"I suppose I do."
He glanced around. "Out of all the ranchers here, who would you say raises the best horseflesh?"
She was surprised that he'd ask her opinion but his face was serious as he scanned the guests. She, too, took their measure. "It's hard to say Wyoming's climate produces some of the finest horses in America. We have one hundred and fifty different grasses in this state and each one is better than the next for grazing. The cold winters, the clear water, and the pure air give our horses stamina and good lungs. The army buys most of their horses here."
"I know that. But who would you buy from?"
Before she could answer, Fannie called, "Change partners!"
They stopped dancing abruptly and withdrew from each other to stand uncertainly, realizing they'd embarked upon their first civil exchange and that it hadn't hurt one bit.
"I'll think about it," she said.
"Fine. And think about who I ought to buy hay from, too. I'll need advice if I'm going to make it here."
Again she felt stunned that he'd seek it from her. But he was offering an olive branch for Charles's sake, and the least she could do was accept it.
"Hay's not so touchy. Anybody."
He nodded as if accepting her word.
A new partner waited, but as Emily turned to him, Jeffcoat grabbed her arm and twirled her back to face him. Grinning into her eyes, he said in an undertone. "Thanks for the dance, tomboy."
He stood too near, his lopsided smile six inches from her eyebrow and she could smell the faint scent of his flesh, warm from dancing, and see clearly the grain of his skin on his clean-shaven chin, the single dimple in his left cheek the edges of his teeth, the humor in his eyes. She felt something stir between them and wondered in a brief flash how it would feel to be flattened against the porch wall and kissed clean by him instead of Charles.
The insanity lasted a mere second before she pulled free and quipped, "You'd better brush up for next week. My toes are wrecked."
For the remainder of the night they politely avoided each other, while Fannie taught everyone to dance the varsovienne—a cross between the polka and the mazurka. Emily stuck to Charles and Tom to Tarsy. Before the evening broke up Tarsy spread the word that her party would be at the same time next week at her house and all the young people were invited. When it was time to wish their guests good night, Emily and Charles stood at the door side by side, accepting parting wishes. Charles got a handshake from Tom while Emily got a hug from Tarsy, who whispered into her ear, "He's walking me home! I'll tell you about it tomorrow!"
When Charles was gone, Emily helped Fannie and Papa clean up the house and wondered if Tom Jeffcoat was pushing Tarsy against her porch wall and if Tarsy was enjoying it.
Silly question! Tarsy probably had him pushed against the porch wall!
She wondered about kissing and w
hy some girls enjoyed it and others didn't. She thought about herself earlier tonight with Charles, and how she'd felt almost reviled by his groping. She was engaged to him now, and if Tarsy were any authority, it was supposed to be enjoyable, even desirable.
Maybe there was something wrong with her.
She went upstairs five minutes before Fannie and sat in the lamplight worrying about it. Should a girl prefer working in a stable to kissing her intended? Surely not. Yet it was true—sometimes when Charles kissed her, when she gave in to him out of a sense of sheer obligation, she thought of other things—the horses, pitching hay, riding across an open field with her hair blowing like the mane of the animal beneath her.
Dejectedly Emily removed the pink dress and hung it up, took down her hair and brushed it, thoughtfully studying her reflection in her mirror. She touched her lips, then closed her eyes and skimmed her fingertips over her own chest, pretending it was Charles. When he was her husband he would touch her not only here, but in other places, in other ways. Her eyes flew open and met their mirrored images, chagrined. She'd seen horses mating and it was a graceless, embarrassing thing. However could she do that with Charles?
Worrying, she donned her nightdress and slipped into bed, listening to the murmur of Papa and Fannie as they came up the stairs and said good night in the hall. Then Fannie came in and closed the door, unhooked her dress, untied her corset, and brushed her hair, humming.
Oh, to be like Fannie. To whisk through life worrying about nothing, single and happy to be, pursuing whatever flight of fancy beckoned. Fannie would have the answers, Emily was certain.
When the wick was lowered and the bedsprings quiet, Emily stared at the black ceiling with a lump in her throat.
"Fannie?" she whispered at last.
"Hm?" Fannie murmured over her shoulder.
"Thank you for the party."
"You're welcome, dearling. Did you have a good time?"
"Yes … and no."
"No?" Fannie rolled over and touched Emily's shoulder. "What's wrong, Emily?"
Emily took a full minute summoning her courage before enquiring "Fannie can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
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