California Romance

by Colleen L. Reece

  She bared her teeth in a travesty of a smile. “I apologize for not informing you of this earlier. By the time we realized Gretchen was returning to school, you were already on your way.” She spread her hands in a helpless gesture. “We can’t afford to offend dear Mr. van Dyke, now can we?”

  Joy exploded in Dori like fireworks on the Fourth of July. Bless Gretchen, the merchant’s daughter. Dori tingled with anticipation until she could barely sit still. Her heart raced. She felt her mouth widen into a delighted grin. Thanks to “dear Mr. van Dyke’s only child,” Dori Sterling could go home without losing face.

  Yippee-ki-ay!

  She clapped one hand over her mouth, fearing she had spoken aloud.

  Matt stared at Miss Brookings. His words fell like ice pellets into the silence. “Madam, we paid your fee in good faith. This van Dyke girl will not be taking my sister’s place.” He stood, as if to end the conversation. “Now if you will excuse me, I have a train to catch.”

  Dori felt her heart break from disappointment. In a matter of seconds, she had plunged from the heights of happiness to the depths of despair. She stood, tried twice to speak, and at last got a few words out. “M–Matt,” she stammered, “if the other girl really wants to come back, I…”

  Her brother’s jaw set in a way that boded no good for Miss Brookings, who had sprung from her chair and come around from behind the desk. “You are staying, Dori, or I’ll see that the authorities hear of this.” He took Dori’s arm. “Walk me to the door.”

  Miss Brookings’s pale eyes filled with alarm. So she’s human, after all, Dori thought. Or maybe afraid of what Matt might do. A lot of good that will do me. The Babbling Brook will hate me for sure if Matt makes her let me stay.

  “Please, Mr. Sterling, you misunderstand me.” Miss Brookings’s crumpled handkerchief fell to the carpet. “I am making an exception to accommodate your sister. Dear Gretchen is just your age, Dolores. You’ll be in the same grade. But”—she shook her head—“you’ll have to work hard to keep up with her. Gretchen is our finest student.” She paused, then added, “I just know that you two will become bosom friends.”

  Dori ducked her head to hide a grin. Had the prim and proper headmistress really said bosom in front of Matt? Become friends with the van Dyke girl? Dori would sooner get bucked off a wild mustang. The Babbling Brook rushed on.

  “The only thing is, she will have a roommate instead of occupying the private room you requested. Miss van Dyke has always occupied that particular room and—”

  “And now it will be necessary for her to be assigned elsewhere,” Matt cut in.

  Miss Brookings looked as appalled as Dori felt. “But, dear Mr. Sterling, Mr. van Dyke is our strongest financial supporter.”

  Matt’s eyes flashed. “I don’t care if he is Governor John Davis Long. I paid for a private room for Dolores, and I expect her to have it.” He glared at the distraught woman. “And it had better not be some cobbled-up makeshift.”

  “I am sure it shall be as you say.” But the venomous look she gave Dori when Matt turned toward the door warned the reluctant new addition to Brookside Finishing School for Young Ladies: Dori already had an enemy.

  Chapter 3

  Hope for delivery from Dori’s troubles fell to the marble floor when she took Matt’s arm and traversed the long hall to the forbidding front doors. Ignoring Scraggs, who hovered nearby like an unwelcome wraith, Matt hugged her.

  He looked troubled. “If the scene with Miss Brookings has made you feel unwelcome, there’s still time to change your mind. There must be other schools, although it may be too late to get you in this term.”

  Matt’s offer shone like a rainbow after rain. Dori hid her face against his shoulder. Every beat of her heart urged her to go home—but it was too late. She had teased to come. Matt had paid an exorbitant price for her tuition. With Miss Brookings so upset, Dori knew not one penny of the fee would be refunded.

  The Sterling pride that had built the Diamond S from a small spread into one of the largest cattle ranches in the San Joaquin Valley meant Dori must stay if it killed her—and it may, she silently added.

  Dori straightened her shoulders and summoned every ounce of the acting ability she had developed over the years to get her own way. I must give a performance worthy of Sarah Bernhardt. A performance so convincing Matt will go home believing I’m exactly where I want to be. And I must do it without lying. She took a deep breath, mustered a smile, and looked into her brother’s face.

  “Don’t be silly,” she said, hoping the tears that welled behind her eyes would produce a sparkle but not fall and betray her. “When have you ever known me to cut and run when there was rough water? Besides,” she quickly added, “I intend to hold my own against ‘dear Mr. van Dyke’s daughter.’”

  The relief in Matt’s laugh showed Dori how well she was succeeding in her role of delighted student. He hugged her and dropped a kiss on her forehead. His blue eyes so like hers darkened. “Besides, you outrank Miss Gretchen van Dyke.”

  “I do?” Dori gaped at him.

  “Yes, my dear sister,” Matt quietly told her. “She has a wealthy merchant for a father, but you are a child of the King of heaven and earth.”

  Scraggs coughed.

  Dori freed herself and whirled toward him. Was that actually approval she saw in his faded eyes?

  The butler cleared his throat. “Ahem. If I may be so bold, sir, I’ll be happy to look after Miss Sterling as much as my duties allow.”

  Remorse swept through Dori. She had unjustly categorized the butler as dour and without feelings. Now she saw kindness in his worn face—kindness that melted a bit of the ice surrounding her heart at the thought of Matt leaving without her.

  Matt must have read her thoughts. He thanked Scraggs, shook his hand, then pulled Dori to him and whispered in her ear, “Remember what God told Samuel: ‘The Lord seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart.’ Who knows? Maybe even Miss Brookings has hidden depths.” With a grin and a final hug, he stepped out into the rain, leaving Dori and the butler alone in the great hall.

  “I’ll have someone show you to your room,” Scraggs said. “You will find a list of rules posted on the door. You need to memorize them.”

  A look of understanding crossed between them, making Dori feel she wasn’t entirely friendless in this strange, new world.

  The maid Scraggs summoned, who looked to be about Dori’s age, smiled and announced, “I’m Janey.” She took Dori to a corner back bedroom on the second floor. Although smaller than Dori’s room at home, it was still spacious and attractively furnished. The single bed wore a damask spread that matched the draperies at two large windows. A study desk, two lamps, an ornately carved wall mirror, a comfortable-looking chair, a chest of drawers holding a porcelain bowl and water-filled pitcher, and a large wardrobe completed the ensemble.

  Janey wrinkled her freckled, upturned nose. Mischief flashed in her eyes. “Miss Gretchen’s going to throw a catfit when she finds out you have this room. It’s the best in the school.” She made a face. “Don’t pay that one any mind. She’s just used to having her own way.” Janey began lifting gowns from Dori’s trunk and hanging them in the wardrobe. “Ooh, how pretty.” When she finished, she said, “You’d better change your clothes for dinner, miss.” A bell chimed. “That’s the first bell. The second means hurry.” She gave Dori a friendly grin and vanished into the hall.

  Dinner? Oh yes, eastern folk called dinner “lunch” and supper “dinner.” Dori removed her traveling clothes, sponged her face and neck, and slipped into her finest gown. The rich, white silk was the epitome of elegance yet gave Dori the freedom of movement she insisted on. Miss Mix had boasted, “It’s the very latest fashion. Wear it the first night, so you can make a lasting impression,” she advised. “In it, you can hold your own against the finest there.”

  Dori caught up a gorgeous shawl Solita had made for her in Mexico’s national colors: sc
arlet, emerald, and white. Before leaving her room, Dori paused to read the posted rules. “Ugh. There are enough rules here to choke the biggest work horse on the Diamond S.” She grimaced. “God only gave the Ten Commandments. If Brookside listed all these in their advertisements, no one would ever enroll.”

  Among other things, Brookside young ladies were forbidden to eat in their rooms, walk beyond the school property unless accompanied by a teacher, run in the halls, or be out of their rooms after lights out. They were warned that talking, laughing, note writing, conversation by signs, eating, and leaving of seats were forbidden during study and recitation hours. Loud talking and romping were prohibited. For every perfect lesson scholars received four good marks. Two entire failures in answering or general imperfect answers incurred a forfeit mark, whatever that was.

  And the young ladies must never, ever be late for meals.

  “I might as well be in jail,” Dori muttered. She quickly read the final rule: “The Bible is the great rule of duty for both teachers and scholars. Truth and virtue, Christian kindness and courtesy, will be the governing principle of conduct to all the members of this school.”

  Dori raised a disbelieving eyebrow. “Teachers and scholars? I wonder if the Babbling Brook ever reads her own rules.”

  A second bell sent Dori scrambling to the wall mirror for a last reassuring glance, in spite of Janey’s warning that it meant hurry. The white gown and brilliant shawl set off Dori’s dark curls and blue eyes to perfection. She blew the looking-glass girl a satisfied smile, sailed out her door, and lightly tripped down the stairs. She followed the sound of voices and stopped in the doorway of the large dining room. Light from two chandeliers sparkled on gleaming silver and dishes. The aroma of good food lured. Suddenly hungry and fully prepared to dazzle the Boston blue bloods with the dress Miss Mix had predicted would “make a lasting impression,” Dori stepped inside.

  Chapter 4

  Dori entered the dining room and stopped short.

  She had wanted to show the girls at Brookside Finishing School for Young Ladies that living in the West didn’t mean being a barbarian. Instead, she wished she could sink through the floor.

  She was the only girl in the room wearing a fancy gown.

  The others wore long-sleeved gray dresses with voluminous white pinafores, identical to the school uniforms hanging in Dori’s wardrobe. And the girls were staring at her with open mouths and scornful eyes.

  In the pool of silence that followed Dori’s grand entrance, Miss Mix’s warning flashed into her mind. Pride did go before destruction, and mighty was the fall of Dori’s haughty spirit.

  “Miss Sterling, you are late,” Miss Brookings snapped from her place at the head table. Triumph dripped from every word. “If you hadn’t wasted time decking yourself out as if you were going to a fancy dress ball”—she cast a disparaging look at Dori’s shawl—“or a costume ball, you wouldn’t be tardy.”

  Titters ran through the room.

  Humiliated but undefeated, Dori refused to take the Babbling Brook’s belittling comment meekly. She quelled the roomful of giggling girls with a lightning glance, turned to the headmistress, and put on her most injured expression. “Why, Miss Brookings, I took for granted that since this is Boston, proper etiquette required me to dress for dinner. When in Rome, do as the Romans do, right?”

  The headmistress’s face reddened. “This is not Rome. Our young ladies only wear such garments on special occasions.” She pointed to an empty chair at a nearby table where seven girls sat staring. “Take your place.”

  Inwardly seething, Dori obeyed. She bowed her head while Miss Brookings mumbled a boring blessing. What good was it to win the first skirmish? Dozens of hard battles lay ahead, and what chance did she have of winning the war? A quick survey of the girls around her in their regulation uniforms left Dori unimpressed. Not one looked like she had enough spunk to say boo to a goose.

  After introducing themselves, the girls ignored Dori until one smirking brunette spoke up. “You’re the girl who stole Gretchen van Dyke’s room, aren’t you?”

  Dori felt hot color spring to her cheeks. “I have the room my brother paid for.”

  “Gretchen won’t like it,” Harriet sneered. “Neither will her father.”

  Dori resisted the temptation to blurt out that Gretchen and her father could go hang. Instead, she daintily raised one shoulder and met Harriet’s unfriendly gaze head-on. “The room is mine now.” She smiled sweetly. “Perhaps Miss van Dyke can room with you. If you like, I’ll speak to Miss Brookings about it.”

  Harriet choked, gulped water from her crystal goblet, and retorted, “We’ll see about that.” Her eyes smoldered.

  Appetite gone, Dori choked down what was put before her, but only for the sake of appearance. She’d eat dirt before letting this pack of snobs see how upset she was. When Miss Brookings dismissed them, Dori fled as if pursued by ravening wolves.

  Back in the coveted room, the ivy-covered academy walls that had looked so picturesque in the advertisement closed in on Dori. She slowly removed the white dress, its charm besmirched by the unpleasant Miss Brookings and her flock of simpering sheep. She hung it at the back of the wardrobe and donned the drab uniform. It changed her from a cattle rancher’s sister into one of the sheep. Dori shuddered. She, a sheep? Never—unless it were a black sheep.

  Footsteps followed by low voices sounded outside Dori’s door. Ears made keen from the need to be alert while riding the range, she tiptoed to the door and opened it a crack. The hall was dimly lit, but Dori recognized the girl who had questioned her at the table, huddled in a circle with two other girls.

  “Just who is this Dolores Sterling, anyway?” Harriet challenged.

  “She’s no lady in spite of her fancy clothes and airs,” a second girl said.

  “That’s right,” the third agreed. “Look how tan she is. Ladies are known by how white their skin is.” A quickly stifled giggle sounded.

  “She looks Mexican to me. Besides, Dolores is a Spanish name, isn’t it?” Harriet’s tone was so spiteful it set Dori afire with anger. “So what is she doing at Brookside? My parents didn’t send me here to hobnob with foreigners. And,” she added, “whatever are the van Dykes going to say?”

  Dori threw caution to the winds and flung the door wide open. “The van Dykes can go hang.” Hands on her hips, a cauldron of hot words trembled just behind her tongue, threatening to burst out and scorch her adversaries. “I am not—” A daring thought halted her denial. She scornfully raised her head. There wasn’t a drop of Spanish blood in her, but why not capitalize on her name and her ink-black hair?

  “My name is Dolores Sterling. I am not a foreigner. However, you may call me the Spanish senorita—and the last thing I intend to do is to hobnob, as you so inelegantly put it, with either you or the van Dykes.” Ignoring the collective gasp that followed her bold announcement, Dori turned on her heel and marched back into her room. She slammed the door with a resounding thud, rejoicing over the shocked faces she’d left staring at her, but also feeling guilty.

  I didn’t say I was Spanish, God, she said, salving her conscience. Only that they could call me senorita. Besides, what if I were Spanish? Solita and my Mexican friends are worth far more than this bunch of East Coast ninnies. What am I doing here, anyway?

  In the days that followed, Dori asked herself the same question over and over. She hated the regimentation and ached for wide open spaces. She despised the gray dresses and white pinafores Miss Brookings’s “young ladies” were forced to wear. “Life is worse than the stories Captain Perry Mace used to tell about the discipline of military life,” she often told herself.

  Too proud to admit defeat and go home like a frightened calf bawling for its mother, Dori decided to seek revenge. One look at Miss Used-to-Having-Her-Own-Way van Dyke, on whom Miss Brookings openly fawned, and Dori determined to oust “dear Gretchen” from first place in the academic standings. Thanks to an excellent teacher in Madera and Matt’s insist
ence that his sister always do her best, Dori was well prepared to carry out her plan.

  The first marking period established a running competition between the girls. Dori edged Gretchen into second place in every class except deportment.

  “Why should I be penalized for breaking rules that make no sense?” Dori complained to Scraggs. “Why am I forbidden to climb out my window and down the ivy on starlit nights? I hate being cooped up, and I’m not hurting anyone.” She scowled. “Janey overheard Gretchen—the sneak—report me. Tale bearing is far worse than what I do.”

  Scraggs looked sympathetic. “It is to you…or to me,” he whispered, “but what we think doesn’t count. Gossip has it that Miss Gretchen is Miss Brookings’s pet student. She hasn’t forgiven you for being in ‘her’ room, you know. I hear things.” His smile made Dori wonder why she had ever considered him gloomy.

  Scraggs glanced around the hall as if fearful of being overheard. “Mr. van Dyke’s coffers are very well filled, you know.” He patted Dori’s shoulder. “Don’t fret about it. I understand your…uh…pranks are winning admiration from some of the other young ladies.” His posture remained as rigid as ever, but a telltale gleam in his pale eyes betrayed his approval. “Of course, Misses Brookings and van Dyke can’t have that.”

  Dori felt a bit better until she was called on the carpet again the next day.

  The Babbling Brook wore her wrinkled-prune face. “Why must you be so impertinent?” she demanded. “Miss Allison says you openly challenged her authority.”

  Dori’s lips tightened. “Anyone who states that ‘the wild West is filled with uncouth persons and is not a fit place to live’ needs challenging. Besides, I only quoted Exodus 20:16: ‘Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour.’ I could have said that westerners are at least polite enough to keep quiet about people and places they have never seen and know absolutely nothing about.”