Courting Miss Callie

by Dorothy Clark

  The seat creaked. She shivered as the cool night air replaced the heat from Ezra’s body. The shay dipped and his boots crunched on the gravel. Moonlight cast his shadow before him as he walked around Star, and then he was there, looking up at her, holding out his hand.

  “I’ve brought you safely home.”

  His smile stole into her heart, settled there. She placed her foot on the iron rung, took a breath and put her hand in his, trembled at his touch.

  “You’re shivering.” A frown replaced his smile. “I’m sorry. I should have thought to provide a lap robe.”

  “Not at all. I was quite warm in the shay.” Heat warmed her cheeks at the admission. She ducked her head, took his offered arm and walked beside him to the porch, dreading the moment they would part, wishing it were over.

  “I enjoyed watching the Senecas’ dance. Thank you for accompanying me.”

  “I’m pleased you asked me.” His boot heels clicked against the wood of the steps, her hems swished softly. She glanced across the porch. Only a few steps more to the door. She gathered herself together, prepared to smile and bid him good-night. They stopped and she slipped her hand from his arm. He captured it in his.

  “Thank you for a lovely evening, Callie.”

  His quiet words felt like a caress. He raised her hand and turned it over, pressed his lips to her palm, then turned and walked away. Cold air replaced the warmth of his hand. She curled her fingers over the spot of warmth where his lips had touched, pressed her closed hand to her chest and watched him stride through the moonlight to the shay. She leaned back against the door, looked up at the sky and smiled, then took a long, deep breath and went inside.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sophia’s sitting room door opened. Callie shaped the last lump of dough, plopped it into the greased pan and glanced up. “Good morning.”

  “Indeed, it is.” Her aunt strode into the kitchen, the long skirt of her silk gown swishing. “Where is Agnes?”

  “She’s outside getting the milk and eggs and butter. And bacon.” Ezra preferred bacon to sausage. She hummed softly, covered the dough with a towel and set it aside to proof, then began to peel a potato.

  “I thought perhaps you would stay abed for a bit this morning—now that Agnes is here to help.”

  She shook her head and brushed back a dangling curl that tickled her forehead with the back of her hand. “I need to show her where things are, and how you like things done.” She slid the potato into a bowl of water and started on another.

  “Is that the only reason, Miss Songbird?”

  She heard herself humming, stopped and looked up. Sophia’s eyes glowed with fondness laced with a touch of amusement and sagacity. There was no reason to try and hide the truth from her—not that she could. “I couldn’t sleep.” Understanding flashed between them. Her cheeks warmed.

  “I thought as much.” Sophia smiled, reached across the worktable and covered her hand holding the potato with hers. “And I’m glad. It’s high time you had a beau.”

  One of her own choosing—yes. She pushed the thought away. She would not allow her sour memories to taint this wonderful new happiness bubbling around inside her.

  The door opened and Agnes stepped into the kitchen carrying a basket laden with dairy foods, eggs and bacon. “I brought along a wedge of cheese. I thought perhaps we could add it to some stirred eggs? Father is very fond of them that way.”

  “What a good idea, Agnes.” Sophia squeezed her hand, straightened and turned toward the young woman. “I’m sure our guests will enjoy the special treat.”

  Did Ezra like cheese? Had she served him any? She cast back through the meals she’d prepared since he’d arrived. Meals he’d told Sophia were better than any he’d had in the fancy restaurants in the city. He thought she was a good cook—he’d told her so that very first day. A smile warmed her heart and touched her lips. She hummed softly and slid the knife around the potato slicing off a thin layer of skin.

  * * *

  Life couldn’t be any better—at the moment. Ezra whistled “Amazing Grace” and drew the brush along the chestnut mare’s back. He was certain Callie held at least budding affection for him. She had avoided his direct gaze during breakfast and dinner, but several times he had caught her stealing looks at him from beneath her lowered lashes. And, throughout the meals, whenever their gazes had met, that betraying, rose color had spread across her delicate cheekbones. Just as it had when he’d looked up and caught her gazing down at him when he’d freed her skirt hem last evening. A grin slanted across his mouth. He loved her blushes—loved even more that he caused them.

  He crossed his forearms on the mare’s back, fisted his free hand and rested his chin on it remembering the way Callie had looked standing there watching the Seneca dancers, with the firelight playing over her beautiful face and flickering in her violet eyes. Her eyes had seemed darker, warmer than ever when she’d looked at him.

  The mare whickered low, thrust her muzzle against his ribs. He laughed and shot out his left leg to catch his balance. “All right! I’ll finish grooming you. There’s no need to push.” He put down the brush and picked up the cloth, wiped it down her neck and resumed his whistling.

  The mare whickered again, tossing her head. “Is that approval of my musical ability, or are you telling me that you like being groomed?”

  The kitchen door of the hotel squeaked. His pulse jumped. He glanced out of the wide, double doors, open to allow the sunlight to brighten and warm the barn’s interior. A tall and gangling young woman with a long-jawed, hawk-nosed face crossed the porch and started down the steps, an empty basket clutched in her hand. Disappointment drowned his hope of catching a glimpse of Callie. He’d forgotten about the new cook.

  He turned back and finished wiping down the mare, then took hold of the chestnut’s halter and led her toward the doors. “Let’s get you watered, girl. Then you can go back to your clean stall and eat, and I can get washed up for supper.” He stood stroking the mare’s shoulder while she drank, his head full of Callie. Would she go out onto the porch with him when he made his request after supper? He wanted privacy when he asked her if she would allow him to escort her to church.

  He took the mare to her stall and started for his room, stopping at the beat of hooves on the gravel way. A long shadow fell across the floor, followed by the span of horses that cast it. Their hooves fell in rhythm on the wide planks, and danced to a halt as a carriage rolled into the barn. It was a phaeton—one of the fanciest he’d ever seen.

  He moved forward, spoke in a soft tone to the matched pair of black geldings standing with heads high, nostrils flared, and took hold of the reins of the nearest one. Joe came from his room and limped toward him.

  “I want my horses rubbed down and stabled in stalls next to each other with an empty stall on either side.” A tall, thin man dressed in a black suit with a snowy white cravat at his throat climbed from the carriage, lifted out a leather case and turned to look down his long, aristocratic nose at them. “Give them only your best grain—oats mixed with bran—three times a day. And fresh hay. See that they are well-watered and groomed daily.” The man’s haughty gaze swept his direction. “I expect my orders to be carried out implicitly.”

  He bit back a retort and turned his attention to the horses. The man scowled, tugged at his suit coat then strode out the door.

  “He ain’t none to happy with you not bowing and scraping.”

  “Then he’s going to have a very unhappy stay.”

  “That’s what I figured from the look you give him.” Joe chuckled and took hold of the reins of the other horse. “Let’s get this fancy rig moved over to the side, then unhitch these beauties and get them in their stalls. As for him—” Joe threw a disgusted look toward the open doors “—I hope she gives him a room with old straw in the mattress and the stalks prick h
im all night!”

  He looked over at Joe and grinned. “I could always give him mine.”

  * * *

  Callie lowered the drop front of the secretary desk, smoothed her skirts, sat in Sophia’s chair and eyed the exposed cubicles and drawers. Laughter bubbled.

  “Is something funny, dear?”

  She glanced over her shoulder and shook her head. “It’s only that I always feel a little bit guilty, and ridiculously adult when I touch something in this room that was forbidden to me as a child.” She turned on the chair. “Does Agnes need me?”

  Sophia laughed, and stepped close. “No, dear. I only came in to get some ink. The well in my office desk is empty. And I’ve a new guest to sign in.” Her aunt picked up the ink bottle, rested her free hand lightly on her shoulder and smiled. “And there is no reason for guilt, Callie—and no reason for you to ever again ask permission to use my desk or other things. Anything I have is yours, dear. This is your home now.”

  Tears surged. Her throat tightened. She caught Sophia’s hand in hers and pressed it to her cheek, too overcome to speak.

  Sophia cleared her throat, then gave a small laugh. “We shall never get our tasks done this way.” She withdrew her hand, turned with a swish of her long skirts and strode toward the door. “I will leave you to write your letter while I go and tend to my guests. I should have hired a second cook days ago had I realized exactly how much it would free our time.” Sophia paused in the doorway, smiled over her shoulder. “Give Sadie my love, dear.”

  “I shall.” She nodded, stared at the empty doorway. Thank You, Almighty God, for the blessing of Aunt Sophia’s love. She took a breath, blinked the moisture from her eyes and turned back to the desk. She pulled an inkwell and pen from one of the many cubicles, drew a sheet of writing paper toward her, then paused, ordering her thoughts. There was so much she had to say.

  She dipped the pen in the ink, tapped the excess off against the lip of the ink well and began.

  Dearest Sadie,

  I have been remiss in not writing to inform you that I am no longer living at home with Mother and Father. I am in Pinewood.

  She paused, knowing Sadie would be struck by an onslaught of terrible memories upon reading the village name, then took a breath and continued. The nib of the pen scratched lightly against the paper as she recorded all that had happened since her arrival, then added her hopes for the future.

  The sun shifted. She slid the paper toward the light, thought for a moment, then sighed and added a final paragraph, though she knew it would bring her friend pain.

  Before I close, I must tell you I chanced to meet your grandparents the other day on my way to the mercantile. Your grandmother is as sweet as ever. And your grandfather still pretends to that sternness we all know to be false. He is kindness itself. I hope to have a long visit with them soon. They miss you, Sadie.

  I pray this letter finds you happy and satisfied in your teaching position there at the female seminary. Stay well, my dear friend, and write soon. I miss you.

  My dearest love,

  Callie

  She blotted the writing, folded the letter, wrote the direction, capped the inkwell and put it and the pen away. Sealing wax candles were in one of the small drawers. She lit the wick of a red one at the lamp and held it over the loose end of the paper. A large drop of wax dropped onto the seam, sealing the letter.

  She forwent the use of Sophia’s stamp with its ornate capital S and tidied the desk, rose to hurry to the post office and post the letter. If only Sadie would come home. But she wouldn’t of course. And who could blame her?

  * * *

  The door was pulled open. The bells tinkled their greeting. “Good afternoon, Miss Callie.”

  “Indeed, it’s a lovely day, Mr. Totten.” She smiled up at the widower everyone in the village knew wanted to marry her aunt, gathered her skirts and stepped by him into the dim, cool interior of the mercantile.

  The blend of aromas that always made her want to take a deep sniff greeted her. She detected the sharper scent of lemon among that of the usual leather, coffee and molasses and skimmed her gaze over the long, wood counter. A slatted wood crate holding the yellow fruit nestled in a bed of curly wood shavings sat a short distance away. How far had they traveled by ship, canal boat and wagon? She eyed their plump firmness, walked to where the proprietor was stacking boxes of paint dyes and placed her basket on the counter. “I’ll have six of the lemons, Mr. Cargrave. And a quarter-pound of cinnamon, please.”

  She crossed to the glass fronted nest of pigeonhole mailboxes, stepped to the narrow, waist-high opening in the center and laid her missive on the small shelf. “I’ve a letter to post, Mr. Hubble.”

  The stout, gray-haired man turned on his stool and squinted at her through the pair of wire-rimmed glasses that rode the end of his slightly bulbous nose. “Afternoon, Miss Callie. The letter is off to your parents in Buffalo, is it?”

  “No. It’s for Sadie.”

  “Ah.” He nodded his gray head, tugged at his suspenders and came over to examine the letter. “I hope you told Miss Sadie her grandma and grandpa are lonely for her. Mr. and Mrs. Townsend aren’t getting any younger. None of us are. Young people sometimes forget that.”

  She snagged her lower lip in her teeth to keep from springing to Sadie’s defense, and watched him write the rate on the top right corner, then reached into her reticule and handed him the correct coins. He dropped them in a cashbox, turned and placed her letter in an open bag on the table.

  She moved on to the shelves that held dry goods and notions, selected needlepoint wool in the green and rose Sophia had asked for and carried them to her basket.

  “This going on Sophia’s account, Callie?”

  “Yes, thank you, Mr. Cargrave.” She picked up her basket and walked to the door, listened to the bells jingle their goodbye and stepped outside.

  The young man stepping into the entrance alcove froze. The next instant he was touching his hat brim and dipping his head in a polite greeting.

  She looked away from his hazel eyes, bright with unabashed admiration, snagged her skirt in her hand and hurried down the wood walkway.

  * * *

  Callie hurried up the path to the back porch and climbed the steps, glanced over her shoulder toward the barn, turned and stared. She grabbed the porch post beside her and closed her eyes. Please, Almighty God, please...

  She took a breath and opened her eyes. They were still there—two perfectly matched black geldings with identical white markings, being watered by Ezra and Joseph. Her stomach clenched, knotted. She could be wrong. She’d only seen them a few times. Please, Almighty God, please let me be wrong.

  She let go of the post and crossed to the door, knowing deep inside the prayer was useless. She wasn’t wrong.

  He was here.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Callie squared her shoulders, stepped into the kitchen and closed the door.

  “My, that was quick.” Agnes looked up from stirring batter in a bowl and smiled. The smile faded. “Are you all right, Callie? You look a mite peaked.”

  “I’m fine, Agnes.” She dredged up a smile, placed the basket on the worktable and smoothed back the rebellious curls at her temples. “Mr. Cargrave had lemons. I bought enough to make meringues filled with lemon curd for dessert tomorrow.”

  “That sounds good.”

  She nodded, carried the needlepoint wool to Sophia’s sitting room, found it empty and headed for the door leading to the hotel dining room.

  Agnes gave her a quizzical look.

  “I’ll be back to help with supper.” She hurried through the empty dining room, stopping in the doorway of Sophia’s office. Her aunt was writing in the guest register. She stared at the book, clenched her hands and closed her eyes. Please, Almighty God, please let me be w
rong.

  She opened her eyes and moved forward into the small room. If she could get close enough to read the name of the last guest...

  Sophia blotted her writing and closed the register, then looked up. “Why, Callie. I didn’t expect you back so soon.” Her aunt’s eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong, dear? You look pale. Are you ill?”

  “No. I’m only—” She stopped and took a breath. She couldn’t ask yet—didn’t want her dread confirmed.

  The knots in her stomach tightened. She pressed her hands against her abdomen, drew a slow breath and forced out the question she didn’t want to ask. “Aunt Sophia, what is the name of the last guest to arrive this afternoon?”

  “Why, it’s Mister—”

  “Jacob Strand. At your service.”

  The sound of his voice froze her lungs. She pressed her hand to her chest and turned toward the doorway of the entrance hall. He stood there in his expensive black suit with a black satin cravat at his throat, a pear-shaped pearl resting in a cup of glittering diamonds pinned to its center, and a gold watch chain dangling across his black velvet waistcoat. He was as dark and sleek and proud as his horses. But nowhere near as likable. She detested the man.

  He smiled, and made her a deep bow. “I thought I heard your voice, my dear Miss Conner.”

  Her stomach churned. She put all of her dislike into her voice. “I am not your ‘dear Miss Conner’.”

  “Not yet, perhaps.”

  Bile rose into her throat, prevented her from speaking. She swallowed hard and clenched her hands, longing to slap the smug smile from his face.

  “You know my niece, Mr. Strand?”

  “I am soon to be her betrothed, Madam.”

  She couldn’t stop her gasp, the sense of panic that gripped her at his pronouncement. Sophia’s hand lifted, resting on her arm. She drew a breath and glanced at her aunt. Sophia was gazing at Jacob Strand, a frosty glint in her violet eyes.