A Most Unsuitable Match

by Stephanie Whitson

  Later that evening, Fannie took her time washing dishes in the lean-to boarding house kitchen while Patrick and Abe played checkers and Edie, Lamar, and Samuel played poker with bits of paper for chips. Samuel was feeling considerably better, and was now able to sit up and play a game for a half hour at a stretch before the exhaustion caught up with him again. The laughter sounding from the room should have made Fannie happy, but somehow it made her feel lonely.

  He might not be able to speak clearly, but Samuel seemed adept at making people feel comfortable with him. Patrick especially liked him, and Edie … Sam seemed to have a special fondness for Edie that Fannie couldn’t quite understand. It was almost as if the two shared a secret no one else knew about. Sam seemed to take special care to play the gentleman around Edie, and she seemed to have an affection for him that bordered on mothering. Fannie was glad for Samuel’s sake, but she felt left out. Which was petty, and she knew it, but she couldn’t seem to help it.

  Samuel himself was the cause of part of her loneliness. His speech was coming back, but it was painfully slow. Fannie had noticed a streak of impatience and anger in him when he tried to talk to her that hadn’t been there before. Sometimes he just plain gave up, and that left her feeling helpless. There was so much she wanted to talk to him about, but he didn’t have the words. She wanted to hear all about the gold camps and how he’d been invited to give a sermon in a saloon. Lamar said it wasn’t his story to tell, and she’d just have to wait until Sam was able. She wanted to hear about Emma. Mostly, she wanted to offer comfort, but Sam didn’t seem to want that. At least not from her. He was more than willing to try to talk with Edie, but every time Fannie tried to join a conversation, Samuel turned to writing cryptic notes. He wouldn’t even try to talk to her.

  Edie appeared in the doorway. “Want some help out here?” She picked up a dish towel. “I’ve won the house so many times those two are sick of playing with me. They’ve gone to bed. Abe and Patrick are still at the checkerboard. He said he’d keep Patrick occupied while I talked to you.”

  “About what?”

  “About taking Lamar and Sam to my place for the duration. I thought I’d see if Lamar might take on some of Pete’s work—as soon as his arm heals, of course. Pete’s not getting any younger. He can fix just about anything, but he’s slowed considerably. As for Sam … . if I ever had a son—” She broke off. Shrugged. “He makes me believe there’s a slim possibility God hasn’t written off old Edie after all.”

  “Why would you say such a thing?” Fannie protested. “God doesn’t do that.”

  “I just might be the exception to his willingness to put up with mistakes.”

  Fannie shook her head. “You’ve given six women a home, Edie. Anyone would admire that.”

  Edie concentrated on drying a plate. “You have no idea just how many mistakes I have to make up for. Bonaparte’s in its present incarnation is little more than a speck of dust in a whole desert of sins.”

  “Don’t I remember something in the Bible about forgiveness being free? I don’t think we have to earn our way with God. Everybody falls short.”

  “Some of us fall shorter than others.” Edie forced a chuckle. “I know he’s no priest, but Sam’s easy to … confess to.” She put a stack of plates on the shelf. “No matter what I say about people I’ve left behind, people I’ve hurt, Sam keeps sending me to that Bible of his and saying just about the same thing you just did. He describes it as more forgiveness than any person could ever need, no matter what they’ve done or who they’ve hurt.”

  “Sam … says that?”

  “Well … not out loud. But he keeps pointing me to the same verses, and when I try to tell him I’m the exception, he shakes his head and writes You can’t sin more than God can forgive.” She reached for another plate as Fannie lifted it out of the rinse water, but then held on to it until Fannie looked up at her. When their eyes met, Edie asked, “Do you think that’s true? That anything can be forgiven?”

  Now, why did that question make Fannie feel … unsettled? What was Edie getting at, anyway? Fannie released the plate and plunged her hands back into the dishwater, forcing a lighter tone into her voice as she said, “If it isn’t, everyone’s in what Hannah used to call ‘a heap o’ trouble.’ ”

  They worked in silence for a while. Finally, Edie gave Fannie’s shoulder a squeeze. “I’m sorry I let Eleanor chase me away, Fannie. Sorry she couldn’t find a way past her anger to make you feel loved.” Her voice wavered. “You’re a beautiful, kind, honest, delightful girl.” She cleared her throat. “And I’m about to say something that’s going to make you really angry, but I have to say it.”

  Fannie steeled herself to hear something terrible even as she realized she liked the idea of Edie treating her the same way she treated Samuel—as a close friend.

  “Edmund’s going to propose to you. And you have to say no.”

  “What?” Fannie turned to look at her. “What are you talking about? Edmund’s… . We’re friends. That’s all.”

  “Maybe so, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t going to propose. You’re wonderful with Patrick, and the boy loves you. He needs a mother, and you’ll be a superb mother.” Her voice lowered as she insisted, “You mustn’t do it, Fannie.”

  “What—why would you say something like that?”

  “Because you’re in love with Sam.” Edie put one hand on Fannie’s arm and gave it a squeeze, then let go. “He loves you, too, although he’s being ridiculous and refusing to acknowledge it because he’s not well. He’s terrified he never will be, and he’s being tragically noble. Which is stupid … but what are you going to do? Men are stupid.”

  When Fannie said nothing, Edie added, “Don’t be angry with me, Fannie. Once you think about what I’ve just said, you’ll know I’m right.”

  “I’m not angry. I’m … amazed.” She swept her forehead with the back of her hand. “How did we get from Samuel and Lamar going to Bonaparte’s to God’s forgiveness and then on to whom I should marry—which, by the way, isn’t really any of your business. But, since you brought it up, I’m no match for Samuel Beck—not when he’s going to be Reverend Samuel Beck someday, and I believe with all my heart that he will be.”

  “So do I,” Edie agreed. “But you’re wrong about not being a match for him. You’re exactly right. The truth of it shines in his eyes every time he looks at you.”

  “Why don’t I see it when he looks at me?”

  “Because he’s a beautiful-but-bullheaded son of a willy-walloo.”

  Fannie laughed in spite of herself. “Captain Busch used to call himself that.”

  “Yes, well … unless he’s changed, Otto is a son of a willy-walloo.” Edie smiled. “There’s more than one in the world, honey. And some of us are women.”

  Samuel had taken to rising before dawn and forcing himself out the door to take a walk, which had begun as mostly a torturous limp that barely carried him to the fort before he was exhausted, but now carried him all the way to the river and back. He was getting stronger. Dr. LaMotte had taken out all the stitches, and while Sam still didn’t like what he saw in the mirror, he reminded himself that vanity wasn’t a very attractive character quality. He should be thankful to be alive, and he was.

  And so, on this frigid morning when frost had painted the landscape white, Samuel dragged himself out of bed and limped toward the levee. As he walked, he recited the Shepherd’s Psalm. Or tried to. Mostly he mumbled. Edie said he was getting better every day. He couldn’t hear it. All he could hear was a garbled mess.

  Edie. There was a fascinating woman. There was something … he couldn’t figure it out, but once or twice he’d caught her watching Fannie when Fannie was unaware. And all of Edie’s talk about how he didn’t know just how much God would have to forgive if he forgave her. He was sure at least part of that was connected to Fannie somehow. Sam just couldn’t quite untangle it. He wanted to see Edie finally give things up to God and stop trying to fix them herself. He wanted to
tell Fannie … so much. But he needed to talk to do any of that. Didn’t God know that? Dr. LaMotte said to give it time. Everyone did. Sam was doing his best to believe them, to not to give up, but it was getting harder by the day.

  Fannie woke just as dawn spilled in her bedroom window. She’d almost mastered getting dressed beneath the pile of comforters, but she was still shivering by the time she made it into Abe’s kitchen to start breakfast. She’d just gotten the fire going in the cookstove when a shadow in the doorway made her jump.

  “Sss … me.”

  “Were you sitting in the dark?”

  Sam shrugged. Nodded. “Praying.”

  Fannie smiled. “Well, I don’t suppose you need a lamp to pray, do you.”

  He shook his head and retreated.

  “You don’t have to leave. I’m just going to mix up some batter for flapjacks.”

  He lingered in the doorway, watching her work. “You grad—grad—”

  “Yes.” Fannie smiled as she measured flour and soda into a mixing bowl. “I told you I would. Graduate.” She scooped coffee beans into the grinder and handed it to him. “Earn your keep.”

  While Samuel ground the coffee beans, Fannie finished mixing up the batter and began to fry flapjacks. She’d just put a stack of hot ones on a plate when someone opened the front door.

  “That’s Edmund and Patrick,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron and hurrying to greet them. One look at Edmund and she knew something was wrong. “What’s happened?”

  He shook his head, rubbed his neck.

  “Patrick, there’s an entire plate of flapjacks in the kitchen. It’s on the right side of the work table. Think you could get it out here without a disaster? If you need help, Mr. Beck is there making coffee.”

  As soon as Patrick was out of earshot, Edmund told her, “Dick Turley came to see me last night about a cough. The old fool hasn’t listened to a thing I’ve said for months. And now … there’s nothing I can do.”

  Fannie put her hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry.”

  “When I offered him laudanum to keep him comfortable, he waved it off. Said he’d drink his way to hell and that I shouldn’t feel bad for him.” He plopped into a chair.

  Fannie went to stand behind him. Placing her hands on his shoulders, she began to knead the knotted muscles.

  “That feels … wonderful.”

  “That’s the general idea.”

  He reached up and took her hand just as Patrick and Sam emerged from the kitchen.

  So that’s the way it was. It made complete sense. If he’d ever had a chance with Fannie, Sam realized he’d lost it. And it hurt. A lot. But then … what did he expect? He’d been off in the mountains for weeks, then unable to talk for himself since he got back. And Edmund LaMotte was a good man. In fact, now that Samuel really thought about it, Fannie would be much happier with him anyway. Hadn’t she said something about LaMotte taking Patrick to that school in St. Louis? It was obvious the boy loved her. Who wouldn’t? Fannie’s best friend was blind. It was almost as if God was preparing her to be Patrick’s mother all along. It really was perfect. Fannie wouldn’t have to adapt to Montana, although Samuel had to admit that she’d done an amazing job of that, too. She was a different woman from the one who’d looked up at him that long-ago day on the levee at St. Charles and asked about passage to Fort Benton. A different woman altogether. More mature, stronger, and clearly meant for someone else. It was God’s will and he, Samuel Beck, would learn to accept it. Of course, acceptance didn’t mean he had to sit there in Abe Valley’s dining room and eat breakfast while Edmund LaMotte courted her … did it?

  “You’ll eat with us, won’t you, Samuel?”

  Sam shook his head, nodded at the doctor, tousled Patrick’s hair, and retreated to wait in the commons for Edie Bonaparte to open her door. The minute she did and offered him a good morning, Sam said, “R-ready to go. With … you. Home.”

  Edie looked him over. “What’s happened?”

  Samuel shrugged and tilted his head toward the dining room. Edie headed that way. He heard her greet the diners. She lingered awhile. When she came back to where Samuel sat huddled at one of Abe’s rustic outdoor tables in the cool morning air, she handed him a mug of coffee and said, “I understand what you think you’re seeing, but I don’t think you should give up.” She retrieved a shawl from her room, then returned and sat down across from him. “I am right, aren’t I? You do love her?”

  Samuel nodded.

  “Well then.” Edie smiled. “As I just said. Don’t give up.”

  He shook his head. “Noth … ing … to offer.”

  “That’s not true.”

  He tapped his chin with his open palm. “A preach … r … who … c-c-an’t—”

  “You’re getting better every day.”

  He looked toward the dining room. “She … doesn’t …” He stopped. “He’s b-better.”

  “You’re wrong.” Edie’s voice was firm. “The one who loves most is the one who’s better.”

  Sam frowned. “He l-oves.”

  “As a friend, yes. As a mother for Patrick, of course. But, Sam, Fannie deserves to be loved with the passion I see in your face every time you look at her.” She leaned forward. “Listen to me. I know what I’m talking about. There is nothing noble about being too much of a coward to tell someone the truth.” She broke off. Sat back. “Just risk it, Sam. Tell her. Let her decide.”

  He searched her expression. What did she mean … she was speaking from experience? What was it about Fannie … He looked toward the dining room and then back at Edie. And he knew. Suddenly, the puzzle pieces fell into place, and he knew. He put his hand on her arm. Swallowed. “You s-see … me love … her. I … w-watch … n … s-see … you … love … h-her … too.” He patted her arm and held her gaze. “E-Edie … are … y-you … F-Fannie’s … real ma?”

  Edie pulled back. She looked away. Her hands clenched in her lap. She sat so still it almost seemed she had stopped breathing. Finally, she took a deep breath and gave a short, half-hawking kind of laugh. She swiped at the tear trickling down her cheek. “Well … what d’ ya know.” She cleared her throat. Her voice was husky when she said, “It seems I’ve lost some of my skill as an actress. I’ll have to be more careful.” She brushed at the tears now spilling down her cheeks. Nodded. “Yes, Parson. As a matter of fact, I am.”

  “Tell m-me … how … why.” He smiled. “Good lis-ner.” For a moment, he didn’t think she was going to take him up on it, but then, Edie began to talk.

  “Eleanor and I were always rivals. When Louis chose her, I took it as a personal challenge.” She paused. “I’ve already told you that I’m not a nice person, Sam. But compared to when I was twenty? I’m a saint. Back then, I just wanted conquest. And when it came to Eleanor, I wanted revenge. I pretended to be interested in someone else. Hubert Vandekamp. But that was just to give me a reason to be around Louis. They were in business together …” She stopped again.

  “When I found out I was expecting Louis’s child … well. By then Louis and Eleanor had been married for long enough that they’d learned there was little hope Eleanor would ever be able to have children. And Louis desperately longed for children. When I realized, once and for all, that he would never love me, I had to get away. I convinced myself that loving the baby meant giving it a home with a loving mother and father. Because she loved Louis, Eleanor agreed to raise the baby.”

  Edie rocked back in her chair. “People thought of Eleanor as cold. Can you imagine the kind of love it took for her to raise Louis’s and my baby as her own?” She shook her head. “Eleanor loved deeply … but she never forgave me. She forbade me to see Fannie. The last time I tried, Fannie was fifteen. I went to the house when Fannie was gone. Eleanor … well. There was quite a scene. I left town, but I continued writing letters, even though I knew Fannie might never see them.”

  “Un … tilll …”

  “Yes. Until this spring when Eleanor died, and Fannie f
ound them.” Edie reached for Sam’s hand. “Don’t make my mistake. Don’t give up on yourself. Or her.” She swiped the last of her tears off her cheeks. Stood up. Staggered … and seemed in danger of fainting.

  Sam moved to steady her, and that’s when he realized Fannie was standing in the doorway of the lean-to kitchen. And the look on her face told him she’d heard every word Edie just said.

  Lord, I cry unto thee: make haste unto me;

  give ear unto my voice, when I cry unto thee.

  PSALM 141:1

  Edie reached out, her tone pleading. “Fannie … I’m so sorry … oh … please …”

  Fannie held up both hands, palms out. No. Don’t. She backed away. Into Abe’s kitchen. Leaned against the worktable, gripping the edge with both hands to steady herself. She felt sick with a jumble of emotions she couldn’t control. Shock. Amazement. Denial. And finally, anger. Anger so hot it melted through all the other emotions, burned away the nausea and sent her reeling into the dining room. But Patrick was there, too, and so she stopped in her tracks and waited for Edmund to look her way. When he did, he jumped to his feet and came to her side. She folded into herself and collapsed against him, burying her face in his shoulder as she murmured in his ear. “Edie … I heard her talking to Sam… . Edie Bonaparte is my mother.”

  Edmund pulled her close even as he called to Patrick. “Fannie’s not feeling well, son. I’m going to take her over to the clinic and make a toddy. Would you tell Abe she’s with me?”

  The boy’s brow furrowed. “She’ll be all right, won’t she?”

  Fannie cleared her throat and managed to reassure Patrick that she’d be fine. She let Edmund wrap her in his coat and guide her toward the clinic. The cold air cleared her head. Still, when Edmund swept the quilt that served as a room divider in his living quarters out of the way and insisted she lie down, she obeyed, happy to let him take care of her.