Thank You, God.
One day, he hoped he would be able to tell his father how many ways he’d been blessed by his time in America, that the punishment had produced an unexpected fruit. He hoped he would be able to show the duke how changed he was, not just physically but in character as well.
Grass didn’t grow under Gwen’s feet, that was for sure.
Cleo looked at her reflection in the long mirror while two seamstresses pinned and measured a dress made from midnightblue fabric.
“You’re so thin, mademoiselle,” the youngest of the two said.
Cleo didn’t believe for a minute that the girl was French. She’d wager the accent was fake, feigned to make customers feel their money was well spent.
“You have so little curves, yes?”
“Yes.” The word came out on a sigh.
“Cleo,” Gwen said from the settee against the opposite wall, “you’re stunning. I would look awful in that dress.”
That was a bald-faced lie. Her sister could wear a gunnysack and look gorgeous. Cleo, on the other hand, could make the finest gown in the world look like a gunnysack. She released another sigh.
Gwen stood. “Miss Rabelais, I believe we’ve been here long enough for today. We shall return tomorrow morning. Would ten o’clock be convenient?”
“Oui, madame.”
“We’ll want to see some suggestions for my sister’s wedding gown, as well.”
“Oui, madame.”
Cleo was assisted out of the dark-blue gown and back into the simple blouse and skirt she’d worn on the train. If only the skirt could have been trousers instead.
Gwen drew her out of the dress shop and down the sidewalk toward their hotel. Main Street was busy, automobiles parked at the curbs and driving to and fro. Many more motorcars than Cleo had expected, although there were plenty of saddle horses and horse-drawn wagons too. And lots of dust and noise to go along with them. It made her head hurt. When she remembered that Boise was no San Francisco or New York…or…London…
Mercy! She hadn’t even been in the capital city a day, and already she longed for the quiet of the ranch at twilight.
“I thought we might go to the theater tonight,” Gwen said, “but on second thought, perhaps we should make an early evening of it. The baby and I are feeling tired.”
Cleo couldn’t have been happier to concur.
TWENTY-EIGHT
As it turned out, Cleo didn’t hate and despise all dresses. After several days of trying on countless frocks for daywear and glittering gowns for formal evening affairs, she had finally found something she liked. The high-waisted, ankle-length bridal gown of white satin and lace, along with the veil of tulle, made her feel soft and feminine. Almost pretty. Of course, she needed to wear gloves to keep her work-roughened skin from snagging the delicate fabric.
“This is the one,” Gwen said, meeting Cleo’s gaze in the mirror.
“Yes, this is the one.”
“I can hardly wait to see you in it on your wedding day.” Gwen squeezed Cleo’s shoulders. “Even more, I can hardly wait to see Sherwood’s expression when he sees you in it.”
Lord Sherwood. “I reckon I need to start thinking of him that way.”
“Sorry?”
“I’ll have to get used to referring to him as Lord Sherwood.”
“Well, not in private. No one could object to you calling him Sherwood or Woody when the two of you are alone.”
Cleo turned to face her sister. “What if his parents hate me?”
“Impossible.”
“No.” She shook her head. “It isn’t impossible. He’s a duke and she’s a duchess. And I’m not much of a lady. I’ll never pass myself off as refined or genteel. There isn’t much about me to make them want me as a daughter-in-law.”
“If they don’t love you at first, they will learn to love you. You have many sterling qualities, Cleo, honesty and a goodness of heart chief among them.”
“Woody’s not close to his father the way I am to Dad. I can tell he’s nervous about what his folks will say when they learn we’re getting married.”
“He invited them to the wedding, didn’t he?”
“Yes.” She drew a deep breath and exhaled. “But I’m hoping they won’t come. I think he is too.”
“That might be best. You’ll have enough to deal with when Mother arrives. Can you imagine her with a duke.”
Cleo laughed, although it wasn’t a happy sound. “Mercy.”
Gwen took hold of her hands. “Did you know that I almost broke my engagement to Morgan last summer? I was so nervous, so afraid that I couldn’t be the kind of wife he wanted me to be. When I think how close I came to throwing away my own happiness…” She pinned Cleo with a stern look. “Don’t you dare let doubts rise up to steal your joy, Cleopatra Arlington. You love Sherwood and he loves you. That will be enough to see you through whatever problems arise, including our mother and his parents.”
I hope she’s right. Cleo turned to look at her reflection in the mirror again. Please, God. Let our love be enough.
The first mowing of hay happened on the late side that year, but the harvest was plentiful, thanks to the new sections of land that had been put to the plow. And with the influx of funds the early sale of cattle had brought, the Arlington accounts were in fine shape once again.
Sherwood closed the ledger and put it into its proper place. A quick glance at the desk told him there was nothing left for him to accomplish in the office, so he rose and went outside.
The barnyard was quiet, the temperature hot. Bear and one of the other cattle dogs slept in the shade of the bunkhouse, flat on their sides, looking more dead than alive. Horses stood in the corrals and paddocks, tails swishing at pesky flies. Occasionally, one of them stomped a hoof in irritation. Overhead, the sun blazed in a pale-blue sky.
Sherwood missed Cleo. He missed everything about her. He missed her laugh, and he missed seeing her walk across the barnyard in that long, loping stride of hers. He missed watching her tend the horses and hearing the calm, even tone she used when addressing the animals. Most of all, he missed hearing her call him “Woody.” The ranch was much too dull without her. Life seemed grayer in her absence. Tomorrow couldn’t get there fast enough to suit him.
He stepped off the porch and walked to the barn, where he fed and watered the animals in the stalls. With nothing else demanding his attention and the other ranch hands and Griff scattered in various directions, Sherwood decided to saddle his gelding and go for a ride. The last time he’d gone to the resort for therapy—a twice-per-week affair now—he’d ridden up with Griff in the buggy, which meant his horse needed the exercise.
A short while later, he led the bay out of the barn, mounted him, and rode away from the ranch house, first at a walk, then a jog, and finally an easy lope. When he reached the bridge over the river, he almost turned around but instead kept going, riding on into Bethlehem Springs.
Now what? he wondered. The town looked almost as sleepy as the barnyard had appeared at the ranch.
With his wife out of town, Morgan had stayed at the resort this week, so Sherwood couldn’t drop in on him. There was nothing he needed from the mercantile, and if he stopped at the South Fork for pie, he would spoil his appetite for whatever Cookie prepared for dinner.
He rode down Main Street, past the Daily Herald, the South Fork, the millenary shop, and the High Horse Men’s Club. Once he turned onto Bear Run Road, he rode by the firehouse and the opera house. That was the moment when he decided to stop at the church. He reined in and dismounted, then tied his horse to a hitching post. Inside, the church was as quiet as a tomb and several degrees cooler than it was outdoors.
“Reverend Barker,” he called as he stopped in the narthex.
“Yes.” The reply came from the sanctuary.
Sherwood moved into the doorway. Kenneth stood near the altar, an open Bible in his left hand. “Am I intruding?”
“Not at all. Come in, Sherwood. How are you?”
“I’m well, thank you.”
The reverend walked toward him. “And Cleo? Has she returned from her shopping expedition?”
“No. Not until tomorrow.”
“I assume you’re feeling at loose ends without her.” The reverend motioned toward one of the pews. “Let’s sit down, shall we?”
After they’d done so, Sherwood broached the subject that had been much on his mind. “I’ve been thinking a lot about how different life will be for Cleo once we are in England. Am I—” He stared down at his hands, clenched between his knees. “Have I been selfish, asking her to leave everything she knows? I worry that she’ll be unhappy there.”
“Are you contemplating withdrawing your offer of marriage?”
Sherwood’s gut twisted as he looked up. “Do you think I should?”
“No,” Kenneth answered, his voice low, his gaze gentle. “That isn’t my place to say. But I would advise you to discuss your concerns with Cleo. She’s the one who must decide, although I expect I know what she will tell you.”
He wasn’t sure he wanted to know, but he asked anyway. “What is that?”
“‘Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.’”
Sherwood knew those words came from the Scripture, and they brought some comfort with them. And yet Cleo’s feelings weren’t his only concern. “There is also the matter of how I shall support a wife. I have few options that would be acceptable to my father.”
“What do you feel God calling you to do, Sherwood?”
“I…I don’t know.”
The reverend was silent for a spell, his gaze steady upon Sherwood’s face. Had it been anyone besides Kenneth Barker, he might have squirmed, but he was comfortable here, with this man of God, in this house of God.
At long last Kenneth cleared his throat. “My friend, only you can know what God is speaking into your heart. But I can tell you this: God makes each one of us for the time into which we are born. He creates us for a purpose. Our job is to know Him well, discover what He created us to do, and then do it for all we’re worth for the rest of our lives. Ask God to show you your purpose. He will answer.”
Sherwood mulled the words over in his head. Find God’s purpose and then do it for all he was worth.
“Would you like to pray about it?” the reverend asked.
“Yes, I believe I would.”
On the sisters’ last night in Boise, they attended the theater, seeing a production of Shakespeare’s As You Like It. But as much as Cleo wanted to love the play—and in some parts did—she found it difficult to keep up with what the actors meant. “What wilt thou do?” “Herein I see thou lov’st me not.” “How now, daughter and cousin, are you crept hither to see the wrastling?” Simple enough if heard one line at a time, but too often the words came rapid fire, one upon another, and while she was making sense of them in her head, the play moved on without her.
Gwen had no such difficulties. She laughed and applauded and smiled right along with the rest of the audience.
Cleo decided Mr. Shakespeare was not her playwright of choice. She’d adored the two Oscar Wilde productions that had come to the Bethlehem Springs opera house a few years back—An Ideal Husband and The Importance of Being Earnest—and she was always up for an amusing vaudeville act. Even an Italian opera, where she couldn’t understand a single word they sang, was more enjoyable to her than an evening with William Shakespeare.
She wondered if Woody was fond of the Bard’s plays. For that matter, was that something she should already know about the man she planned to marry? Would he seem an entirely different person once they were in England?
The curtain came down and the audience rose to the sound of applause. Cleo stood with them, clapping her hands and exchanging a smile with her sister. Hopefully Gwen wouldn’t guess that the real reason for her smile was because the play was over.
“What a fine company,” Gwen said over her shoulder as they moved out of their row of seats.
“Have you seen this play before?”
“A number of times. Once on Broadway. That was thrilling. You cannot imagine what the theater district in New York looks like at night unless you’ve seen it for yourself. It truly is the Great White Way with all those marquees and billboards lit up.”
Gwen hooked arms with Cleo as they stepped out of the lobby of the theater and onto Jefferson Street. Some theatergoers hailed cabs or waited for their drivers to arrive with their automobiles, but most left on foot. The sisters were part of the crowd that moved along the sidewalks.
When they were only a couple of blocks from their hotel, Gwen asked, “Did you enjoy yourself while we’ve been here as much as I hoped you would?”
“Want to know my favorite part of this trip?” Cleo smiled. “The best part was being with you, day and night. We haven’t spent this much time together since I campaigned for you last year.”
It was, Cleo thought, an artful dodge of the real question. While she was delighted to have found a wedding gown and to have her sister’s help in selecting a new wardrobe, clothes shopping was not her favorite thing to do. And the play tonight? Well, she’d already decided she and Shakespeare weren’t good companions.
“But you’ll be glad to get home,” Gwen said softly.
“I can’t deny it. I miss Woody and Dad and everybody I’m used to seeing.” She looked up at the stars sprinkling the inky sky overhead. “I reckon I need to store up as many memories of them and you as I can. It won’t be all that long before there’s an ocean between us.” Her chest grew tight as she spoke those words. Leaving the ranch, leaving Idaho, was something she tried not to think about too much. And since she would rather go to England than not be Woody’s wife, than not be with him for the rest of her life, she would have to let the sad thoughts take care of themselves.
TWENTY-NINE
Elizabeth Arlington arrived at the end of July and installed herself in one of the guest bedrooms at the McKinley home. But she found plenty of reasons to visit the ranch, and she took almost as many meals with her estranged husband, future son-in-law, and Cleo as she did with Gwen and Morgan. To say she was pleased by Cleo’s engagement to an English lord would be a gross understatement.
On this particular afternoon on the first day of August, she stood in Cleo’s bedroom, once again admiring the wedding gown. “Gwen has exquisite taste in clothes,” she told Cleo, “but I despair of you ever learning to walk down the aisle like a lady.” She turned around. “You really should put on those satin shoes and practice some more.”
“I’ll do it later. There’s no hurry. I’ve got time.”
“Believe me, Cleopatra. Your wedding day will be here before you know it. You don’t want to make a fool of yourself by stumbling over your own feet at your wedding. Think of the embarrassment that would cause Lord Sherwood.”
“I reckon you’re more worried about that than I am.”
As if Cleo hadn’t spoken, her mother continued, “And whatever shall we do with your hair? It’s too short to pull up. And those curls. They’re so unruly. The veil will cover it for the ceremony, but later—”
“Sorry. I’ve gotta see to my chores.” Cleo rushed out of the bedroom before her mother could try to stop her, and she didn’t slow down until she was in the shadowed safety of the barn. To her relief, Woody was there too. She threw herself into his arms and burst into tears.
“I say. What’s made you unhappy?” He drew back enough to look into her eyes.
“Nothing. Everything.”
“Your mother?”
“Yes.” She pressed her face against his shirt a second time. “She’s afraid I’ll ruin my own wedding.”
“How could you ruin it?”
“By being me.”
He chuckled, and she felt the rumble in his chest.
“Sure. I reckon you can afford to laugh.” She looke
d up a second time. “Mother thinks you’re perfect.”
“And I think you’re perfect.”
The frustration and hurt began to drain from Cleo. Later, she was sure, it would boil up again, but for right now, her world had righted itself. “Let’s take the horses for a ride. Maybe you could read me some more of that fancy poetry.”
Before Woody could answer, the sounds of an approaching automobile drifted into the barn. Cleo hoped it was Gwen, come to take their mother back to town.
“Sounds like company.” She moved toward the door, Woody right behind her.
It looked like the motorcar used by the Washington Hotel. The driver had a couple of passengers, a man and a woman, in the car with him. Cleo narrowed her eyes, trying to see who it was. She couldn’t quite—
“Good heavens!” Woody said softly.
She glanced at him and was taken aback by the ashen color of his skin.
He met her gaze. “Prepare yourself, Cleo. You are about to meet my parents.”
“Your parents?” She watched as the automobile rolled to a stop at the front of the house. Woody moved forward, but Cleo stayed put, preferring to watch the reunion from a distance. His parents.
The duke was an imposing man. Taller and broader in the shoulders than his youngest son, he had a full head of hair and a beard, all of it steel gray in color. From where she stood, Cleo thought his eyes cool and his mouth hard, but maybe she was inclined to think so because of what Woody had told her about his father.
The duchess was petite with a generous figure. A large hat and netting covered her hair and face, but something about the way she held out a hand toward Woody made Cleo think she must be smiling with joy. Mother and son embraced, and he kissed her cheek through the netting. Then Woody turned to his father and offered his hand. The duke waited several heartbeats before shaking it.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” Woody said, “or I would have been at the station to meet your train.”
The Sisters of Bethlehem Springs Collection Page 42