Augusta chastised herself for not realizing sooner. But Hattie always appeared so fearless it simply hadn’t occurred to her. Augusta crossed to stand behind Hattie at the mirror. She straightened the skirt of the eleven-year-old’s dress and fluffed the sleeves. Then she picked up the brush and restored order to the riotous mass of copper curls. As she retied the bow holding Hattie’s hair back, their eyes met in the mirror. “I think you look perfectly sweet,” she whispered. “Our guests are going to be very impressed.”
Hattie studied her own reflection in the mirror, then raised her gaze to meet Augusta’s. “I don’t see how,” she said in a surprisingly adult tone. “You tell me you like me just the way I am. But you’re always instructing me on ways to change.” She turned to face Augusta, her expression uncertain. “What will strangers who don’t know me at all think?”
“Oh, my dear.” Augusta bridged the distance between them, reaching out to hug her ward. As always, when a glimmer of vulnerability broke through Hattie’s tough little exterior, Augusta’s heart melted. Leading her to the bed, where they both sat, she picked up and held one of Hattie’s hands in both of hers. “Sometimes your perception is frighteningly mature. It’s not always easy to remember you’re not even twelve years old yet.”
“I will be in January.”
“Yes, I know.” Augusta took a deep breath. “Hattie, I truly do like you just the way you are, and I’m certain others will, too. But there are a great many rules that govern the behavior of young ladies in our society, dear, and females of good family are expected to adhere to them faithfully. Some are fairly basic: such as good table manners. Others are subtler, and I suspect you’ll have to learn a few of those by trial and error. But I wanted to instruct you on as many as I possibly could before you went out into society. You’re expected to observe the proprieties, but unfortunately you don’t even know what many of them are.” She freed a hand to gently brush an unruly curl away from Hattie’s eyes. “That’s why I’ve been stuffing you full of rules and regulations. Folks can be mighty quick to judge, darling. I don’t want them judging you so quickly by your mistakes that they don’t give themselves a chance to become acquainted with the real Hattie Taylor. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”
“I think so. Mirabel says I’m barely housebroken.”
“Oh dear. Did that hurt your feelings?”
Hattie flashed a smile. “Nah. Mirabel likes me, so I expect she’s sorta saying what you just said. Like, if I were a puppy and I piddled on the parlor floor, people might be so shocked at my behavior they’d never realize I was actually a right fine house pet.”
“Exactly.” Augusta hid a smile. What an apt analogy.
Hattie studied the room for a moment. Then she looked up at her guardian. “Aunt Augusta? Did you know my mama?”
“Not very well, dear. That branch of the Witherspoons lived in California. I’ve spent the majority of the past twenty-four years here in Oregon. But I did meet her on a few occasions, and I remember her as a warm and gentle woman.”
“I can’t recollect what she looked like anymore. But I remember I loved her. And she was a lady, wasn’t she? A real lady, I mean, like you?”
“She was, dear. In every sense of the word.”
“Then, I ’spect I’ll try to be a lady, too. Like she was, and you are.”
Augusta squeezed Hattie’s hand. “I can’t think of a nicer way to keep your mama’s memory alive,” she said and rose from the bed, pulling Hattie up with her. “Come, dear. It’s time to go downstairs. Our guests will be arriving any moment.”
Hattie had been dreading this day far longer than anyone knew. For the first hour, she sat stiffly on the edge of her seat, ankles primly crossed and hands tightly clasped in her lap, her stomach fluttering uncomfortably as she willed herself not to say or do anything stupid. She even declined the hot spiced cider, which she dearly loved, for fear she would slurp, spill, or otherwise embarrass herself or Aunt Augusta.
That earned her sharp scrutiny from Mirabel, who was passing the tray around, and a surreptitious laying-on of cool, bony fingers to her forehead. Hattie grinned and accepted a cup after all. Listening to the conversations around her, she gradually relaxed and conceded that perhaps this wouldn’t be as difficult as she’d feared. Covertly, she studied their guests.
Her tutor, John Fiske, she already knew, of course. He was a mild man who wore steel-bowed spectacles and was so quiet and self-effacing it was easy to overlook him. She did so now in favor of more interesting viewing.
She had been curious about Jane-Ellen Fielding for some time, wondering about the woman Jake was so besotted with. Jake was Hattie’s favorite person in the whole world. She’d already decided she was going to marry him when she grew up. A tiny bit jealous his affectionate attention was not exclusively hers, she had been prepared to dislike Jane-Ellen Fielding on sight.
She could not. Jane-Ellen was pretty and soft-spoken and sweet. She smiled at Hattie and engaged her in conversation, listening to Hattie with patently genuine interest.
Roger Lord, on the other hand, disregarded her utterly. Oh, upon being introduced, he spent a moment exchanging polite pleasantries; then he turned away and ignored her. He was the handsomest man she’d ever laid eyes on. Hattie was awed by his golden hair and pale blue eyes and the romantic cleft in his chin. But pretty is as pretty does, Mirabel said, and Hattie found it kinda difficult to like a person for whom she clearly didn’t exist. Scrutinizing him unobtrusively, she noted that even with the adults he didn’t appear particularly warm.
Doc Fielding was warm. A short, stocky man with thinning hair of indeterminate color, he laughed, talked, and cussed a blue streak, suffixing his swearing with a “Pardon me, ladies.”
It made Hattie uncomfortable. She kept glancing at Mirabel, as the housekeeper moved about the room with trays of refreshments, expecting at any moment she’d grab the doctor by his ear and drag him off to wash his mouth out with soap. She liked Doc Fielding, and she wanted to spare him from what she knew was a heinous ordeal. Finally, on pins and needles each time he opened his mouth, she placed a hand upon his sleeve to detain him as the group was called to dinner. When he turned to her, she raised on tiptoe and whispered in his ear.
Fielding’s laughter drew unwelcome attention. Hattie turned her back on the speculative glances and scowled up at him. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. Sorry.” Doc stifled his amusement. He reached out to touch Hattie’s cheek. “Thank you for the warning. It was da . . . uh, right neighborly of you.” He escorted her to dinner.
During the meal, Doc struggled to curb his cussing. At one point Hattie caught Jake regarding her speculatively and she grinned at him, proud of her accomplishment. Although she’d heard Jake swear many times, she noticed he didn’t around company. His manners and speech were very correct and she suddenly understood what Augusta had told her earlier about observing the proprieties. Hattie decided to follow his example.
Half an hour later she nearly forgot her new resolution. When they repaired to the parlor after dinner, Augusta requested she play a piece on the piano for their company. Hattie hated the piano. She liked to be proficient at things she tried, yet she hated the practice necessary to attain that proficiency. Playing the piano wasn’t like learning to ride a horse, where the learning was almost as much fun as mastering the skill.
Piano was boring, and she hadn’t progressed very far. Still. Augusta asked very little of her. So, as much as she dreaded displaying her lack of ability, she decided to give it her best effort. With as much grace as she could muster, she launched into “Long, Long Ago.”
Midway through the piece, she hit a sour note. She resisted the temptation to pound the keyboard in frustration, but she did automatically mutter, “Oh sonova—”
Immediately tasting the bitter flavor of soap, she bit off the expletive, whispering, “Hell’s bells,” instead
. Gritting her teeth, she silently chanted, Observe the proprieties, observe the proprieties. She managed to finish the piece without exploding, although she felt red-faced with the effort. The polite smattering of applause only served to deepen her flush. Obviously, their guests had also heard the lesson about observing the proprieties. She slammed her method book closed, sketched a brief curtsy to her audience, and stalked over to glare out the window.
Jake nearly exploded himself, trying not to laugh. God, she tickled him. All that red hair practically crackled with the force of her emotions. He decided to help her by shifting the spotlight away from her. Squeezing Jane-Ellen’s hand, he rose. Picking up a teaspoon from the service on the table, he tapped the side of his brandy snifter. “If I could have your attention?”
Hattie turned from the window, grateful the focus of interest had shifted. Jake was assisting Jane-Ellen to her feet, smiling into her eyes. Hattie suppressed a frown as she watched him lift Jane-Ellen’s hand and kiss her fingertips. She was embarrassed for him when he did things like that. It made him look like such a dolt.
While Jane-Ellen blushed, Jake turned to the gathering. “I would like to take this opportunity, while all of us are gathered here, to inform you Jane-Ellen consented to be my wife last night.”
“Oh, my dears . . .”
“Married! Well, son of a bi—uh, gun!”
“Congratulations, Miss Fielding, Mr. Murdock . . .”
“No!” In the multivoiced pandemonium, Hattie’s instinctive denial rang loudest. The felicitations died a sudden death, and in the ensuing silence, all eyes turned to her. She stared at Jacob as if he’d suddenly grown a second head. Married?
He couldn’t. She was barely growing accustomed to having to share his affections at all. He was her special person; he couldn’t get married. Not only was he supposed to wait for her, but Jane-Ellen wouldn’t let him tease her anymore and make her laugh, or bestow those light kisses that made her feel so special. Jane-Ellen would take him away. Oh, her insides felt simply awful.
She became aware that everyone was staring at her. Expected behavior. This, then, was what Aunt Augusta had really been talking about. This was what a young girl aspiring to be a lady had to do even though her stomach roiled with rebellion and she wanted to scream and kick and say, “Sonovabitch!” Even though she wanted to declare, “You can’t do this!”
Hattie licked her lips nervously and pasted on a weak smile. Knowing her first social lie was expected of her, she opened her mouth twice before the words came. Finally, hoping her voice wouldn’t crack, she said, “I mean”—she swallowed hard—“isn’t that nice?”
6
First Presbyterian Church
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 30, 1899
The church was filled to capacity. It had been autumn a full week, but the soft rain drizzling down the stained-glass windows, along with the filled-to-capacity interior, made the chapel warm and steamy. Clothing rustled beneath the organ music as necks craned to catch a first glimpse of the bride, poised on her father’s arm, in the doorway at the base of the aisle.
At the altar, Jake had eyes only for the bride. He stared at Jane-Ellen in wonder, thinking, Tonight. Tonight would be the culmination of all his erotic longings. Finally, to learn the feel of her without the constrictive presence of whalebone between them. Finally, to have the right to teach her the physical aspect of love. The service couldn’t be performed fast enough to suit him.
The bride, on the other hand, looked at her groom up at the altar staring at her with hot eyes and was seriously tempted to call the whole thing off. He was so dark! When had that happened? When she first met Jake, less than six months after his return home from Seattle, he’d been fashionably pale. Apparently, his time spent at the ranch this past year had weathered him, and he no longer looked tame and easygoing. No, he looked dark and dangerous.
Gracious sakes, but she wished her mother were still alive! She needed someone to talk to, for no one had prepared her; no one had told her what to expect. Well, Aunt Clara, who had come to help with the wedding arrangements, had spent a few moments with her while she was dressing this afternoon. But all she’d said about consummating a marriage was a wife must endure.
Endure what exactly? An act necessitating endurance didn’t sound promising. Aunt Clara also said the wedding night might be painful the first time, but to recite scriptures to herself and the things her new husband did to her would soon be over. No amount of cajoling, however, would elicit the information Jane-Ellen most needed to know: what exactly did a man and woman do once they were married?
Her father surreptitiously squeezed her hand on his arm, and they began their stately march down the aisle. The palpable admiration of the wedding guests turning to watch her procession helped dissolve some of Jane-Ellen’s tension. It also served to remind her she wanted to be Mrs. Jacob Murdock. Nobody was forcing her into this marriage. She was indulging in a case of the vapors; that was all. Fashionably pale or dangerously dark, she knew Jake’s basic personality wouldn’t change. She didn’t believe for a moment this perpetually laughing man would ever deliberately harm her. But she still wished someone had told her what to expect.
In the front row of the assembled guests, Hattie sat ramrod straight on the hard pew, her chin at its most imperious angle. In the ten measly weeks since Jake had announced his nuptials, she’d more or less resigned herself. She supposed it was unrealistic to think he would ever marry her. He was a grown-up man and she was just a kid. During the past two months, he’d gone out of his way to tell her—and attempted to show her—he would still be there for her, married or not. She guessed she would simply have to be content with that.
Which was all well and good, but it didn’t address the fact that she was left sitting in church surrounded by people who disapproved of her. Today even more old busybodies were in attendance than the usual assortment she saw at regular Sunday services. She hadn’t missed Miss Eunice Peabody’s comment to Miss Martha Smits earlier when she and Aunt Augusta passed their pew. Even when speaking sneakily, Miss Peabody’s voice carried. “There’s that Taylor hellion,” she’d hissed in her strident whisper. “Looks like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, don’t she? Well, mark my words, Martha, that red hair of hers signifies a wild nature.”
Hattie had thought her whispered, “Pruney-faced old harpy,” was said under her breath, but Aunt Augusta had squeezed her hand warningly. Augusta had also stopped and greeted the two old biddies with regally flawless manners, relentlessly holding their gazes until they were flushed and squirming. Once they’d been properly subdued, Augusta calmly ushered Hattie up the aisle to their front-row pew.
Hattie didn’t understand why people said mean stuff about her. She wasn’t so wild. Well, okay, there had been that one incident at school with Moses Marks. But, heck, even he had agreed he’d brought it on himself.
Just before the beginning of the school year, Augusta had decided Hattie was ready to attend the local school. John Fiske had been dismissed with glowing references, and Hattie had joined her peers in class.
On the Friday of her first week in attendance, Moses Marks, who sat directly behind her, had surreptitiously dipped her braid in his inkwell during lessons. When Hattie rose for lunch with the rest of her schoolmates, her hair, slapping against her back, had splattered the ink all over. Her dress had been ruined.
Naturally she’d tried to knock his block off; who wouldn’t have? And it wasn’t as if she’d broken his nose or anything—it had simply bled a lot. But the way people acted, you woulda thought he hadn’t had it coming.
Moses himself hadn’t held it against her. They had hissed insults at each other as they’d stood with their noses pressed in the middle of the two circles the teacher had chalked on the blackboard. But his face had crumpled with genuine distress when she’d arrived at school the following day with her hair a noticeable three inches shorter. He swore he hadn’t rea
lized the ink wouldn’t wash out and gave her a cookie come lunchtime by way of apology. And that was that.
So why couldn’t everyone else forget about it?
Hattie swallowed a lump in her throat as she watched Jake and Jane-Ellen exchange vows. What was it that caused a person to like another above all others, the way she liked Jake? Was it because he was so affectionate, always tussling with her or hugging her or kissing her nose? Was it because he was always laughing? He alone in the whole town, it seemed, had found her problem with Moses amusing—and applauded the way they’d worked out their differences.
She experienced such a surge of pleasure every time she caught sight of Jake. And something inside ached as she watched him pledge his troth to Jane-Ellen Fielding, even though Jane-Ellen had always been nice to her and Hattie actually liked her a great deal.
Not until the ceremony ended did Hattie breathe easier. Now all she had to get through was the party at the Buchannan.
* * *
—
No one appeared to enjoy the wedding reception quite as much as Jake Murdock. He drank champagne, danced with all the ladies, joked with the men, and through it all, he never stopped laughing. His happiness and high spirits affected everyone, including Jane-Ellen, despite her growing nerves over the upcoming wedding night.
At one point in the festivities, Jake found himself standing momentarily alone. He watched his mother waltz by with Doc Fielding, her face politely blank when Doc trod on her toes. Over in the corner stood Roger Lord, stiff and aloof as usual. A strange man, Roger—arrogant and difficult to warm up to. He’d been their family lawyer for several years now, and Jake had worked with him for almost a year—yet he felt as if he barely knew the man. As soon as Jake and Jane-Ellen returned from their honeymoon, Jake planned to set up his own practice, and he looked forward to creating a work atmosphere more congenial than Roger’s offices.
The Ballad of Hattie Taylor Page 5