“Well, Miss Emily, I ‘spect a desperado or two might still call Texas home, but I don’t suppose you’d really like to meet up with one of ‘em, right up close and all.”
“I suppose not. Have you always lived there, Mr. Tate?”
Her polite question brought Will face to face with a quandary. He didn’t particularly want to confess he had spent a good many years in San Francisco. On the other hand, he didn’t want to lie to her, either. He opted for a partial truth.
“Oh, I’ve lived quite a few places in my life, ma’am. I was raised from a tadpole by my Uncle Mel, you see, and he was—he was—well, Miss Emily, my Uncle Mel didn’t like to sit too long in one place.” It would have been more honest to say his Uncle Mel didn’t dare sit too long in one place, but Will thought better of telling her so right now.
“Oh, really?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Emily frowned. “Did you and your mother live with your uncle, Mr. Tate?”
“My mother, ma’am? I never knew my mother.”
Now Emily was more than a little puzzled. “But, Mr. Tate, I’m sure you told me your mother had taught you stand in a lady’s presence.”
The lilt in her voice and the question in her eyes slapped Will right on his conscience. Oh, criminy. He got his fibs mixed up. He’d never done that before in his life. His uncle Mel would have been appalled.
Well, there was no hope for it. He’d just have to fess up. As if in mortal shame, he hung his head.
“Ma’am,” he said, as though admitting to a mortal sin, “I’m afeard that was a stretcher.”
Emily’s eyes opened wide. “A stretcher, Mr. Tate?”
He hung his head a little lower. “It was a lie, ma’am.”
“Oh!”
Lordy, if he wasn’t careful, he’d be a fallen man in no time at all. Swallowing hard, he nodded somberly, slowly.
“Yes, ma’am. I was afeared you wouldn’t cotton to a feller who’s got no folks.”
Emily’s tender heart gave a painful squeeze. “Oh, Mr. Tate,” she exclaimed softly. “Having no parents is not your fault. And it’s certainly nothing to be ashamed of.” She pressed his arm gently in a comforting gesture.
Nothing to be ashamed of, she’d said. Well, that was a novel idea, coming from the lips of a proper young lady like Miss Emily von Plotz. As he gazed into her sweet, smiling face, Will realized she meant it, too. All at once, he found himself thanking the fates, or whoever was responsible, for sending Aunt Emily his way.
He was still trying his best to sound abashed when he said, “Well, ma’am, I’m right sorry I fibbed to you. I don’t reckon it was something a gentleman would do.”
Emily, who had a shrewd notion most gentlemen fibbed whenever it jolly well suited them, shook her head. “It’s all right, Mr. Tate. While it’s understandable you might like to impress the lady of your choice, she is almost certain to find out sooner or later that you perpetrated a prevarication. It is my belief that one is almost always best advised to tell the truth at the outset. If one is honest from the beginning, the object of one’s admiration is less apt to feel—well, exploited.”
And who was she, she wondered, to be giving such advice to Will Tate, the “Texas Lonesome” of her devious scheme to raise her family from the vicissitudes of poverty? Emily tried not to think about it. She cleared her throat with some difficulty.
“So, Mr. Tate, you lived with your uncle. And you say you and he moved around quite a bit during your youth?”
“Yes, ma’am. My Uncle Mel liked to keep on the move, all right.”
A memory so strong Will could almost taste it hit him full between the eyes—of his uncle and himself hightailing it out of a little Missouri hill town, hotly pursued by a mob of angry townsfolk carrying pitch torches and buckets of tar. Will, just a little boy then, thought he’d caught a whiff of hell that night. It was a long time before the nightmare resulting from the escapade left him alone to sleep a full night through.
“I can’t say I always liked being on the move,” he said in a mild voice at tremendous odds with the turmoil the recollection had stirred up in him. “I ‘spect that’s why I finally got me a piece of land in Texas, built me a house on it, and aim to squat there until I either blow away or die.”
Emily noticed he had a faraway, and not particularly happy, expression on his face. Her heart was tugged yet again.
“It must be hard on a little boy to be always moving. I—I think children need the security of a settled home, surrounded by people who love them. And friends. It’s hard to have friends if you’re always picking up stakes and traveling around.” Emily’s voice was gentle and her hand stirred on his arm and gave it another little squeeze.
Will was more than a little surprised at her response. Most of the “ladies” he’d met in his life, far from being touched, were faintly disgusted when they learned his early years had been spent on the run, in the company of a wily vagabond. Of course, he reminded himself, Emily hadn’t been given any particulars yet.
“Yeah,” he said. “Well, ma’am, my uncle was an unusual person.”
“Even compared to my uncle?” she asked with a little smile. Her heart began to palpitate in a crazy manner, and she realized what she really wanted was for Will’s uncle to be as eccentric as her own. Then maybe he’d understand her dilemma and feel more sympathetic toward her when he discovered her perfidy. If it was perfidy.
Emily wasn’t sure of anything anymore. What had at first appeared to be a wicked plan to entrap an innocent cowboy, who needed a bride with whom to share his wealth, seemed to have undergone a transformation. Now Emily found herself actually looking forward to being with Will Tate, not because he was “Texas Lonesome,” but because he was Will Tate.
A deep chuckle rumbled out of Will’s throat. “Compared to my uncle, Miss Emily, your Uncle Ludwig is just an amiable, kind of odd old feller.”
“Really?” It was difficult to imagine. “What—what about Aunt Gertrude? Was your uncle any worse—I mean—not worse, but—well—you know, um, odder—than she is?”
She felt herself blush. What kind of a cold, hard-hearted, ungrateful niece did she think she was, to be talking about her dear aunt and uncle this way? Emily was ashamed of herself.
But Will only laughed. “Miss Emily, I think your aunt and uncle are very nice people. They’re surely not run-of-the-mill.”
A hint of amusement began to override Emily’s shame. “No, “I guess they’re not that.”
“I think you’re lucky to have relatives who love you, ma’am,” Will continued, correctly assessing the state of Emily’s nerves and trying to set her at ease.
Those tender nerves were still jangling a good deal, although his words soothed her. But it was his choice of words that caught Emily’s attention. She looked up at his strong profile and wondered what he must have been like as a little boy. It was difficult to remember, she thought, that adults had been children once and had suffered all the trials and tribulations of growing up.
“Do you mind my asking you another personal question, Mr. Tate?” she asked timidly.
When he smiled at her, Emily just about melted on the spot. Oh, my, he had such an alarming effect on her nerves.
“Well, ma’am, I don’t reckon you could ask me any question I’d mind, in particular.” He hesitated for a couple of seconds. “Of course, I guess I also reckon some of the answers might not be purely to your liking.”
He wondered if “Aunt Emily” would drop his acquaintance like a slimy worm if she knew he had spent his youth selling snake oil and trying his damnedest to cheat honest folks out of their hard-earned money. He wasn’t sure, but he suspected more than one family had suffered dire consequences as a result of his youthful employment. Before he’d learned better.
“Well, I just wondered if you ever knew your parents, Mr. Tate. I only ask,” she hurried to explain, “because I—I remember my mother and father, and sometimes I still miss them. It’s certainly not that I don
’t love my aunt and uncle. It’s just—” All at once, Emily felt tears sting her eyes, and she looked away, embarrassed.
Will saw her tuck her little chin in close to her collar and felt a tremendous urge to hug her tight and tell her everything was going to be all right. Instead, he covered her hand with his once more.
“Why no, ma’am, I don’t reckon I recall my ma and pa at all. My Uncle Mel—his name is Melchior—told me they both died when I was just a babe in arms. I never knew them.”
“How sad.” Emily’s voice was a tiny whisper. She was blinking back her tears with fury when she donned her brightest smile and said, striving for a light note, “Melchior? What an unusual name, Mr. Tate. Like the Wise Man?” She was acutely conscious of Will’s hand covering hers; it felt so good. Protective. Comforting.
Her words produced another chuckle, somewhat tainted this time by recollections too painful to mention. “Wise man? I reckon. Don’t know as how I’d call my Uncle Mel awful wise, though.” Of course, if Will took Mel at his own assessment, he would have called him not merely wise, but sharp, shrewd, and cunning, as well. But Will no longer considered the ability to swindle one’s fellow man a virtue.
He could tell Emily was still in some kind of distress. And, while he didn’t understand it, he sure wished he could help her.
“Well, anyway, I don’t guess I have to worry none about my Uncle Mel haulin’ me all over the country anymore. And I’m right glad about that. It’s much nicer to be a man grown and to be able to take a pretty lady like you to the Palace of an evening, Miss Emily.”
The grateful smile with which she greeted his words were all the thanks Will figured he’d ever need for steering the conversation out of the maudlin depths of painful memory.
“Do you suppose we could go over my manners one more time, ma’am?”
A sigh of pure happiness escaped Emily’s lips before she could stop it. “I think that’s a perfectly delightful idea, Mr. Tate. Would you care to walk me home while we have our review? I need to let my aunt know I won’t be at home this evening and then prepare tomorrow’s column before we dine.”
She also had to scurry about and fix herself a costume suitable for a visit to the Palace, too, but she didn’t expect Will needed to know it. Fortunately Emily, having had years of practice, was ready for almost any clothing contingency life had to offer, and she had a fair notion of what she was going to wear.
“That sounds like a fine idea to me, Miss Emily.”
So the two of them strolled toward Hayes Street slowly, arm in arm, soaking up the day and each other’s company. They paid no mind to the happy nods of people they passed along the way, who saw the couple, recognized a splendidly perfect match, and smiled in approval.
Emily’s sunny mood lasted until she had almost reached the foot of the stairs in her aunt’s house. When she passed the second-best parlor, her smile of amusement and love was genuine when she heard a muffled thump, as of a thick book hitting the carpeted floor. She recognized that thump and knew her aunt was assisting yet another young lady to attain the pinnacle of perfect posture.
Emily’s own favorite volumes had been rescued long ago and were now safely tucked away in her room. Although she admired her aunt’s industry, however ill rewarded, she didn’t particularly care to have Mr. Shakespeare or Mr. Wordsworth fall from an unsteady head and land, pages crimped, upside down on the parlor floor.
It was her Uncle Ludwig who inadvertently caused her mood to blacken. He didn’t mean to do it, either. His only purpose in stopping Emily before she skipped up the stairs to her room was to share some wonderful news with her.
“Emily!” he cried. “That wonderful young man of yours visited me this morgan and told me he’s interested in investing in my dogs!” Ludwig was so excited his feet scarcely touched the shabby carpet as he rushed toward her.
“What?” The word burst out of Emily’s mouth in a gust of incredulity.
Ludwig didn’t notice. Anything that did not directly affect his dogs had little ability to puncture his enthusiasm. “Yah, yah! It’s true. That nice Will Tate wants to invest in my dogs!”
Ludwig grabbed Emily and did a little dance while she stared at him, dumbfounded, and turned in a circle as he led. He didn’t notice he was the only one dancing.
“Oh, my God.” Emily whispered.
She watched Ludwig waltz himself off down the hallway and felt her heart, which had been soaring, suddenly wheel like an arrow-pierced dove and spiral to a slow, miserable, plop on the tattered hall carpet.
“Oh, my God,” she repeated as she trudged up the stairs. Tears burned her eyes when she pushed her door open and stepped into her room.
She allowed herself only five minutes or so of unrelieved unhappiness, though, as she sat at her desk and stared out onto the crowded street below. A brief thought that she could solve all of her problems by flinging herself out the window crossed her mind only to be immediately rejected with no little disgust.
“What are you thinking of, Emily von Plotz, you selfish, ungrateful girl. If you were gone, there would be nothing at all standing between your aunt and uncle and miserable want. No. You must be strong. You must set scruples aside and work with firm diligence toward your goal. You can’t allow honor to stand in your way. If Will Tate wants to invest in Uncle Ludwig’s dachshunds, he’s a grown man with a grown man’s will, and he’s made the decision of his own accord. It’s not your responsibility.”
Her stern self-lecture got her off of her desk chair and over to her wardrobe, even if it didn’t do a thing to mitigate her overwhelming feeling of guilt.
If only she hadn’t allowed herself to care. She’d been willing—no—happy to deceive him when she thought he was nothing but a crude country bumpkin. Now that she knew what a kind, wonderful man he was, she felt guilty. Hah!
What an unscrupulous fraud she was. It didn’t matter what kind of man he was. She was a miserable, wretched, deceiving cheat.
On that cheerful note, Emily began to haul gowns out of her closet and fling them onto her bed. Ruthlessly, she sought to create the one perfect costume that would leave Will Tate—country boy or hero, it mattered not—helpless at her feet.
She had three evening ensembles from which to choose, and a whole paperboard carton full of laces, trims, frills, and embellishments she had rescued from a variety of sources. Ultimately, she decided upon her most daring, revealing gown. Over it she would wear a burgundy evening basque trimmed with ivory lace. She had a feeling the lace had, in its youth, been white. But it was cream-colored now, and it would do very well. Emily was nothing, if not practical.
After an hour or so she was happy enough, if such bitter satisfaction could be termed happiness, with her ensemble so as to feel ready to tackle her column. It took no time at all to get the morrow’s words ready for Mr. Kaplan, although she did find herself having to curb her unsteady temper once again.
“‘Dear Aunt Emily,’” one heartsick correspondent wrote. “‘My husband is a wealthy businessman in the city. I’m sure he loves me, but he pays me no mind. He gives me money as though to make up for his lack of attention. I sit all day long, wishing for him to be with me. When I cry, he gets upset. Whatever shall I do to win his eye again? I am so unhappy. Signed, Lonely.’”
Gritting her teeth, Emily did not allow herself the pleasure of telling “Lonely” exactly what she thought of a rich woman who had nothing better to do with her time and money than pine away for a husband who was, no doubt, spending all his energy earning her more money. Instead, she was rather pleased with her tepid response.
“‘Dear Lonely: Whenever Aunt Emily finds herself lonely, despondent, and in need of attention, she takes comfort from helping her fellow creatures in distress. She also takes long walks in the park where she gathers ideas for her garden. I believe if you will look about you, you will discover any number of benevolent causes, from abandoned dogs and cats to orphaned children, all of which will benefit from your attention. Your husband is
doing his duty by providing well for you. I believe you might do yours somewhat better by not trying to make him feel guilty about it.’”
The last sentence bothered her after she read it aloud and she decided, although she meant every word, to scratch it out. “Well, at least Mr. Kaplan will be pleased,” she sighed.
The next letter she picked up was from Texas Lonesome. She recognized the writing on the envelope immediately and ripped it open.
“Dear Aunt Emily: I think you are the nicest lady in the world. I think am in love and hope to know for sure soon. It is you who helped me and I thank you.”
“Oh, my.” She didn’t know what on earth to write back. At last she decided not even to try.
Chapter 7
Will Tate was a happy man. He had left Emily at her aunt’s front door with a promise to pick her up, in a carriage, at seven-thirty.
Then he’d whistled his way over to the Palace, where he spent a fruitful half-hour or so arranging for the evening’s entertainment. Those arrangements required a good deal of diplomacy and the liberal greasing of several palms, but Will didn’t begrudge a single gold coin. He wanted tonight to be special.
After his dealings with the folks at the Palace, he strolled back to Thomas Crandall’s mansion on Nob Hill. There he was greeted by his faithful canine companion, Fred.
“Freddy, old boy, you’re about the best friend a man could ever have. If it hadn’t been for you, I’d never have met my little Emily.”
It didn’t occur to Will to examine exactly when he had decided she was his little Emily. He only knew she was.
Fred seemed pleased.
# # #
“Do I what?” Thomas Crandall’s mouth dropped open and stayed open after the three words tumbled out.
“Do you want to invest in dachshunds? They’re the coming thing in the dog world, you know.”
Will gave his black silk evening cravat a little twitch and positioned his diamond-and-pearl stickpin among its elegant folds with great care. The pin was expensive but tasteful, and Will thought it gave his appearance just the right touch to impress Miss Emily von Plotz, if she needed further impressing. He suspected she didn’t.
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