That brought him up short. Sophrona feeling lust? It was difficult to imagine. Certainly she'd be a dutiful wife, and he would try to please her, but the hungers of the flesh were surely incongruous to a lady of Miss Sophrona's refinement.
The fantasy of Sophrona Tewksbury whining and begging as she wrapped her legs around his neck was not only difficult for him to imagine but strictly ludicrous. A good part of the reason that he had never attempted to take liberties with the young lady—except on one fateful occasion—was simply that he couldn't imagine her allowing them. And if the slap he'd received under the maple tree was any indication, his judgment had been correct.
Still, a wife would be a wife, and a wife was exactly what he needed to get Esme Crabb out of his life for good.
Rog Wicker, apparently finished with his inspection of the available goods, walked to the counter to settle up.
"Will that be all?" Cleav asked as he totaled the price of the goods for purchase in his head.
"Need some tobacco," Wicker said as an afterthought.
"Red Leaf?" Cleav asked, already reaching for it.
With a quick glance over his shoulder, the man shook his head. "I smoke Carolina Blue," he said a little louder than necessary. "It's a lot smoother than that old cheap Red Leaf."
Cleav couldn't stop himself from taking a hasty look toward Esme, then wished he hadn't. She was grinning ear to ear and looked positively ready to swagger.
As he helped Rog load the supplies on his wagon, Cleav reassured himself that, lust or no lust, he was proposing marriage to Sophrona Tewksbury this very afternoon!
The store was empty when Cleav went back inside. Well, not empty, he corrected himself. Esme was there, but she'd become such a fixture even he'd begun to think that she belonged.
She was humming to herself as she rearranged the canned goods on the shelves. A few days ago she'd suggested that since the cans with the bright-colored paintings were quicker to catch the eye than the plain tins with black lettering, putting the brightly painted ones in front would draw attention to the shelf and cause customers to make more purchases. Cleav tried, without success, to explain to her that people only bought the things that they needed. That people were too smart to be lured into buying something that wasn't necessary just because it came to their attention.
She hadn't been convinced, so he'd allowed her to change the shelving presentation however she liked, thinking she would learn for herself. To his amazement, he'd sold more canned goods in the last two weeks than in the whole month prior. And with spring blossoming out everywhere, the need for canned goods should have dropped completely.
Cleav shook his head in disbelieving approval. The woman certainly did have a head for business. Maybe after all of this was over, when he was blissfully wed to Miss Sophrona and Esme safely married to one of the hill boys, he could hire her to work for him. That would leave him more time for his trout. And a little cash money coming in regularly wouldn't hurt her family, either.
Satisfied with his solution to all his problems, Cleav almost felt like humming to himself. He resisted it, however, and returned to contemplating the drummer's catalog.
The cool quiet of the store, disturbed only by the pleasant sound of a lively tune on Esme's lips, lulled Cleav into a temporary contentment.
When the humming stopped, Cleav looked up.
As usual, with no thought to her surroundings or the proprieties, Esme Crabb had paused to jerk up her skirts and adjust her sagging stockings.
At the sight of those well-remembered, oft-dreamt-of limbs, Cleav's pulse began to pound. Heat suffused him, and the air within the confines of the store was suddenly not enough to catch his breath. This was not going to happen again, he swore to himself, not ever. He was done with her merciless teasing.
"Don't!" His shout was so unexpected, Esme actually jumped.
She stared at him, questioning and a little frightened.
"Have you no shame at all?" he asked furiously. "You flaunt yourself before me like a hussy."
"I am not flaunting myself," Esme defended herself, her cheeks blazing.
"Then what are you doing?" His voice was angry and dripping with sarcasm.
"I'm straightening my stockings," she explained haughtily and with a good deal more justification than she felt.
"I know you are straightening your stockings," Cleav told her. "I've watched you do it a half dozen times."
"Well, you should keep your eyes to yourself."
"If I did, you'd be very disappointed."
"Oh!" Esme felt the sting of the words as if they were a slap.
"I've seen more than I care to of those pitiful stockings of yours, and I'd like to request, if you think you can manage it, that you keep your legs decently covered in my presence."
Even knowing she was in the wrong, Esme's chin was high. She would not allow herself to be cowed by Cleav's boorish behavior. "I suppose you would have me just let my stockings sag to the floor until they trip me and I fall flat on my face!"
"Other women don't seem to suffer with that problem," he countered.
"Because other women have garters to hold their stockings up! Garters are not something that arrive in a charity box, and I'll have you know that I've certainly never had the selfish desire to spend good money buying such frivolities."
Cleav opened his mouth but couldn't think of a reply. He searched his brain momentarily for a snappy comeback and then stormed across the room. Jerking open the second drawer down in the fabric and notions section, he grabbed the first thing that came to his attention.
Striding directly to Esme, he slapped what he had retrieved into her hand. "Here! Take them," he said.
Esme gazed at her hands in wonderment. Brand-new, never-been-worn, store-bought garters. They were pristine white, but sported tiny bows of baby's-blush pink.
"Just consider them a gift from me," Cleav said cynically. "And wear them for me every day'
Esme brought the beautiful scraps of dainty cloth up to her heart. Never in her life had she owned anything so beautiful, so feminine, so new.
Cleav might have tossed them to her on a whim, but for Esme they represented all that was fine and beautiful and civilized in the world. And they were given to her by the most wonderful, handsome, intelligent man any woman could ever dream of. She would wear them for him, every day. And each time she put them on, it would be as if he'd touched her flesh himself.
"Save to graces, Cleavis," she murmured. "They are beautiful." Tears welled up in her eyes until she could barely make out the beauty of the tiny pink bows. His expression was still as dark as a thundercloud, but she could no longer see it.
"Thank you, Cleavis," she managed to whisper with breathy excitement. "Thank you so very much."
The tears were now threatening to flow. Esme wanted to cry for joy, but not in front of him. She fled to the doorway, intending to run to the solitude of the woods with her treasured gift. Alone, with none to spy her sentiment, she could caress and kiss the pretty pink ribbons and model the feminine garments with none to see but herself and the woodchucks.
Rushing through the door, blinded by her tears, she ran smack dab into Pearly Beachum.
"Lord almighty!" Pearly exclaimed. "You pretty near knocked me down, girlie."
"Sorry," Esme answered, breathlessly, still unbalanced by the collision.
Pearly looked at her more closely.
"You crying, Esme?"
"Oh, no, ma'am," Esme assured her as the first of the welling teardrops took that inconvenient opportunity to dribble from the sides of her eyes.
"You are crying!" Pearly exclaimed. "Has something happened? Has he done something to you?"
"No, nothing's happened," Esme said, but brought the back of her hand up to wipe her eyes.
Mrs. Beachum saw a flash of pink and white within the young woman's grasp.
"What have you got there in your hands?"
The woman's voice sounded so suspicious, Esme immediately thought she wa
s accusing her of stealing something.
"It's a gift from Mr. Rhy," she explained hurriedly.
Her curiosity unappeased, the older woman, a well-known busybody, grabbed Esme's hands and forced them open.
"Garters!" She nearly screamed the word Pearly Beachum was clear shocked right down to her toes. "Cleavis Rhy gave you a pair of garters?"
Chapter Ten
It had rained all morning and the path up the mountain was soggy with mud, but Cleav took no notice. It was exactly the kind of day he expected it to be: morose, gray, and threatening. All his days had been like that lately. Ever since he'd heard Pearly Beachum screeching from the front door.
He'd hurried out to see what had happened. Mrs. Beachum had taken one look at him and slammed him beside the head with her silver-topped parasol. Then she'd put her arm protectively around Esme and had dragged the young woman away.
That was four days ago. The last time he had seen Esme Crabb, but far from the last time he'd heard about her. He'd heard little else.
"The people of this community will not tolerate such shenanigans," Brother Oswald had stated publicly. And Fat Blanchard had backed him up.
"Giving a decent woman a present of underwear is tantamount to a marriage proposal," he stated. "It always has been."
At first he'd thought he could ride out the storm. He would get himself respectably, married to Miss Sophrona and eventually the talk would die down.
He owned the only general store for miles. Even those who disapproved of him would think twice about heading over the mountains to Russellville just to buy coffee and sugar. It was simply a matter of time and the whole thing would be forgotten.
Unfortunately, he was wrong.
When he went to speak with Miss Sophrona, the preacher had slammed the door in his face, h was only his refusal to leave the parsonage porch that finally brought Reverend Tewksbury out with the word that Miss Sophrona had taken to her bed with such a malaise that her parents were worried for her health. The preacher made it crystal dear that as far as he and his family were concerned, the pink-and-white unmentionables that Esme Crabb bad carried out of the store that day meant that Cleavis Rhy was now a married man.
The store remained empty, and his neighbors refused to speak to him. And his home was even worse. Eula Rhy put on her mourning complete with black satin shoes and a veil, claiming that she could never outlive the shame. Every few moments she would sniff daintily into a black lace hankie.
Only the fish continued to treat Cleav as they always had. He began to wonder if they had just not heard the gossip yet.
Slipping on the steep narrow slope, Cleav grasped a rhododendron vine as if it were a lifeline and managed to keep upright, but only just. He gave a smile that was devoid of humor.
"That's what I should do," he suggested sarcastically. "Falling face down in the mud would definitely make my new life as the local scoundrel absolutely complete."
In a normal week, Friday afternoon was certainly not the time for Cleav to be making a trip up the mountain, but he'd closed up the store. There was no reason to open it. Even Denny and Tyree set up their checker game under the oak tree across the road.
"You've got to own up to your responsibilities," Reverend Tewksbury had advised him. "You've danced to the tune, now you must pay the fiddler."
"I haven't danced . . . or anything else, for that matter, with Esme Crabb."
The preacher shook his head. "That's not the way it looks to this town." The older man folded his arms obstinately across his chest. "A decent girl must be treated decently. Giving a girl fancy drawers just ain't decent."
"Fancy drawers!" Cleav was incredulous. "I gave her a cheap pair of garters."
Reverend Tewksbury's expression was livid. "It's bad enough that you ruin the girl's reputation. Must you brag about how little it cost you!"
"I didn't ruin her reputation," Cleav insisted.
"It's ruined," the preacher said flatly. "Are you suggesting you didn't do it?"
"It's not me that ruined her," Cleav told him obstinately. "It's Pearly Beachum and you and the rest of this town who have jumped to conclusions, conclusions that are completely untrue."
The reverend looked somewhat pacified. "I believe you are sincere when you say that, Cleav," the older man told him. "And I'm glad to think that you haven't taken advantage of the young girl's foolish infatuation for you."
For an instant Cleav thought he might win the preacher over, but Reverend Tewksbury quickly quashed that hope. "Be that as it may, Esme Crabb has lost her good name. It's only decent that you, as a gentleman, do the right thing."
Cleavis Rhy knew defeat when he faced it eyeball to eyeball. That's why he was slipping and sliding through the mushy damp woods on his way to the Crabb residence. He was going to do the right thing.
He heard the Crabbs before he saw them. The giggly lilt of girlish voices reached him, and he hurried his pace. Stepping into the clearing, he spied the twins, who were laughing and talking as they gathered water from the rain barrel. When they spotted him, the smiles faded from their faces, and they stared in undisguised distaste.
Cleav stared them down, unwilling to allow the two hill princesses to look down their noses at him.
"Tell Esme I've come to talk to her," he said arrogantly.
Without a word Adelaide and Agrippa took their buckets into their shack and closed the door behind them.
Alone, Cleav studied his surroundings. He'd never been on this part of the mountain, and he'd certainly never seen the place the Crabbs called home.
"It's nothing but a cave," he whispered to himself, almost in horror. While he mentally postulated the significance of nineteenth-century cave dwellers, the door opened.
It was not Esme who walked toward him, but her father.
"What do you want up here, Rhy?" Yo Crabb's anger was visible, and Cleav wondered momentarily if the old fiddler might try to do him harm.
Politeness being his only defense, Cleav smiled with as much amiability as he could manage. "Good afternoon, Mr. Crabb," he said. "I've come to speak with Miss Esme, if I may."
Crabb raised a disapproving eyebrow.
"Miss Esme ain't receiving callers at this time," he answered, mimicking Cleav's prim form of speech.
"Perhaps she'll receive me, if you were to ask her," he suggested.
Yohan Crabb put his hands on his hips and stared down the younger man before him.
"Now, why on earth would I want to do that?" he asked.
Cleav squared his shoulders, channeling his anger into innocuous actions. "Because," he answered evenly, "I plan to ask her to go down the mountain with me to get married."
Silence between the two men lingered to the point of discomfiture.
"So you've decided to marry up," Crabb said.
"Yes," Cleav answered civilly. "It seems the only thing to do. If she's ready to come with me now, I'm sure we can get Reverend Tewksbury to marry us this evening."
"You in a hurry to have her?"
"Mr. Crabb, I'm sure you know what's being said. I—"
"I know exactly what folks are running their mouths about. And I can tell you for damn near certain that I'm even madder about it than you are."
The fury in the old man's eyes convinced Cleav he was speaking the truth.
"But," Crabb continued, "my Esme is only getting married up one time. She's deserving better than a hide-in-a-hole weddin' with a man that thinks she ain't good enough for him."
Cleav suddenly realized that he had merely assumed that Esme would marry him. He certainly hadn't imagined any resistance from the Crabb family.
"You are mistaken, Mr. Crabb, if you do not think that I hold your daughter in high regard."
Yohan looked at him dubiously. "I'm listening," he said.
Cleav hesitated momentarily, groping for words. "Esme . . . Esme is . . . bright, yes, very bright and comely, in her own way, and a hard worker," he finished confidently. "She'll make a wonderful wife that any man would be
proud to call his own."
Crabb nodded. "You're right about that, Rhy," he told him. "Trouble is, you don't believe it."
Cleav saw his chances and his reputation disappearing before his eyes.
"Mr. Crabb, I—"
Yohan held up a hand to silence him. "You want to marry up with my Esme? Then you're gonna have to do it right," he said.
Cleav nodded weakly, indicating agreement.
"No midnight marriage and sneaking her off to your house," he stated firmly. "She gets a real wedding with music and flowers and the whole town standing in the church to hear you make your vows to her."
Cleav almost choked, clearly not pleased with the prospect. "Do you think that's best?"
"I sure do! It ain't like folks won't hear about it anyhow."
"But," Cleav protested, "the need for haste is—"
Yo shook his head in disagreement. "They's haste and they's foolishness." The older man hesitated, taking measure of his prospective son-in-law. "You get a wedding set up by Sunday," Yo said finally, "and I'll bring her down the mountain to marry you."
"Fine," Cleav agreed. The day after tomorrow was surely soon enough.
"All right," Crabb said and offered his hand to clinch the deal.
"Perhaps I should speak to Esme now?"
"What for?" her father asked him.
"To formally request her hand," Cleav told him. "To see how she feels about the wedding."
Crabb shook his head. "The way I hear it, you've already seen more of my daughter than a bridegroom is entitled to!"
Cleav's clenched teeth threatened to break, but he didn't back down. "There are things that need to be said between us," he insisted.
"They'll be plenty of time for talk after she's your missus. You got anything to say before then," Yo told him, "you just tell it to me."
Cleav's next words were precise and raw-edged. "Tell her I hope that she's happy about getting what she wanted."
Wearing the white, charity basket castoff of Sophrona Tewksbury, Esme Crabb, head held high, proudly made her way down the mountain to get married.
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