by Tate, Kristy
“Fresh from the oven, because this preachy priss loves you.”
Eloise took one bite and then another. “I love you, too,” she sighed, her eyes rolling in delight.
Mercy wrapped her arm and around Eloise’s waist and led her to the divan.
“This is so yummy, are you sure you don’t want some?” Eloise asked, settling down and looking up at Mercy.
“So sure,” Mercy said.
“But, you brought two.”
“Because I didn’t know if you preferred blackberry or rhubarb.”
Eloise touched her fingers to her lips. “You’re almost as sweet as this tart.”
Almost, Mercy thought.
A door opened and footsteps in the hall signaled the return of Miles and Trent.
Eloise patted the divan with one hand and ate the tart with the other. “Sit with me?” she asked with blackberry stained teeth.
“No, sweetie.” Mercy listened to the men’s footsteps and voices moving down the hall. As much as she wanted to stay to ensure the oil from the snapdragon seeds worked their magic, she didn’t want to meet Trent, Miles or especially Mr. Steele. “I told Aunt I’d only be gone a minute.”
“But you just got here. I need a hen chat.”
“Tomorrow, on the way to the ball you can tell me all about your drive with Mr. Steele.”
Eloise leaned back into the divan, her eyes dreamy. “Hmm, Mr. Steele.” She gave Mercy a lopsided grin and Mercy smiled back, wondering if she should tell Eloise that she had a smear of blackberry cream on her chin.
“Miss Faye?”
Miles stood in the hallway. Disappointment mingled with relief when she saw he was alone. Trent had gone. She despised being muddled and Trent made her feel upside down. If she didn’t want to see him then why was she so disappointed to find Miles alone? After a moment she decided that she didn’t want to see Trent because she knew that he could ferret out her plan. If he knew what she’d done, he would think poorly of her. He had a knack for seeing through her.
The guilt returned and Mercy mentally argued it away. What should I have done? I couldn’t tell Eloise I’ve a previous history with Steele nor could I stand by and watch her throw herself at him. Mercy sighed while the guilt twisted. She picked up her basket and turned to face Miles. She didn’t worry that Miles might suspect her laced tarts.
“Miles,” Mercy said, coming towards him. “How lovely to see you. I wish I could stay longer, but as I was just telling Eloise, I’m afraid my aunt needs me at the shop.” She’s sound asleep and there’s no one minding the store. After one last look at Eloise, who sat on the divan, touching a linen napkin to her lips, Mercy brushed past Miles on her way to the door.
“Perhaps I could walk you,” Miles offered, falling into step beside her.
“Oh.” Mercy thought for a moment. “But, won’t you need to be here when Mr. Steele arrives?”
Miles opened the front door and frowned. A breeze blew in and circled the foyer. It carried with it the scents of a late spring afternoon and Mercy itched to be on her way.
“I’d be happy to drive Miss Faye home,” Trent stood on the porch, to the left of a pillar, backlit by the sun. When he spoke, Mercy tripped over the threshold and landed wrong, her foot twisting beneath her. Trent caught her arm and held her for a moment against him. He smelled of leather and something she couldn’t define. After letting her go, he bent to retrieve the basket that had fallen to her feet.
“Mr. Michaels, you startled me.” She could see him assessing the basket that she took from him and crooked over her arm. She held it tightly against her body, shielding it. On the street, she could see his chestnut colored horses tied to a buggy. They pawed the ground and shook the reins that held them to the hitching post. “I wouldn’t want to take you out of your way,” Mercy hedged.
“Not at all,” Trent motioned towards his buggy.
Mercy shot Miles an apologetic glance over her shoulder as Trent led her to the front gate. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the ball,” she told Miles.
“Until then,” Miles replied, looking huffy as he followed her to the buggy. She let him hand her up and she settled beside Trent and tucked the basket beneath her skirts.
Since she’d be riding as opposed to walking, the threat of passing Mr. Steele vanished. Perhaps the extra time would allow her to double check on Eloise, to ensure the snapdragon oil had safely put her to sleep. Compared to Tilly’s girth, Eloise was a tiny thing and more susceptible to the drug, but she really wanted to make sure.
“Oh dear,” Mercy sighed. “I believe I’ve forgotten my wrap.” The guilt raised its head and Mercy disliked how easily the lies, fast and furious, came to her lips.
Trent moved to jump from the buggy.
Mercy stopped him. “No. Let me. I’ll just be a moment.” She climbed down and hurried up the front walk. Through an open window she could see Eloise sprawled on the divan, her head rolled back, her mouth open, and her eyes closed. Satisfied, Mercy returned to the buggy.
“You know, I just remembered I’d left my wrap at home.” Lies, lies, lies. At this rate she’d need to speak with Pastor Klum. She looked up to find Trent standing beside the buggy, his hand outstretched, waiting to help her up. And then she noticed it, the unmistakable smell of rhubarb.
CHAPTER 13
Sautéing combines frying and braising and produces particularly succulent results. Monitor heat carefully and stir continuously to avoid scorching.
From The Recipes of Mercy Faye
She let him help her up while watching his face for signs of duplicity. Once seated on the bench, she nudged the basket with her toe. Empty. She looked to make sure.
Her back stiffened with the horrible conclusion. “You ate my tart.” The words blurted out of her. She covered her mouth with her hand, equally horrified at her rudeness and the potential awkward situation she now faced.
“Your tart?” He slapped the reins and the horses moved down the street.
Her voice sounded strangled. “I made tarts for Eloise.”
“Did she enjoy them?”
“She enjoyed one. The other is missing.”
Trent chuckled. “Are you seriously accusing me of stealing your tart?”
Her mouth fell open. “You must have!” she finally said.
“I promise you, I wouldn’t take your tart without your permission.”
She sniffed. “But--” Knowing she sounded insulting she fixed her lips together and leaned back against the cushion and watched Trent as he guided the horses down Olympic hill. “I’m sorry, of course you wouldn’t take my tart.” Another lie.
She looked at him through the corner of her eye. His teeth looked clean. He gave a her quizzical look and she flushed. What would he think of her staring at his mouth?
More importantly, what would she do if he fell asleep before they reached Lily Hill? She imagined him slumped against her, his head lying in her lap. She watched him handling the reins. He held all four in his hand, loosely, and the horses trotted obediently along. She’d never driven a buggy, never ridden a horse; it didn’t look difficult. But, Lily Hill lay on the other side of town. They’d have to pass through the business section, where she’d have to navigate around wagons, buggy’s, pedestrians, perhaps children or small animals that could dart beneath the buggy’s wheels. She couldn’t very well parade through town with Trent dozing, his head on her lap.
“Thank-you for your trust,” he said, his mouth a straight line, not a trace of rhubarb scent on his breath.
“You’re welcome.” She watched him, looking for signs of sleep.
*****
Seattle was still a small city. Those who frequented social events inevitably rubbed shoulders. The randy looking men, the women who, in any civilized city would be dubbed spinsters or wallflowers, but by virtue of their sex, and their virtue, in man heavy Seattle society, were a hot commodity. What was Mercy Faye doing here? What had caused her to leave where ever she’d been and come to soggy Seattle?
As he re
played the afternoon’s conversation in his mind, Trent wanted to think the feverish cheeks were his doing, but somehow, he doubted it. Why would she be so angry over a missing tart? And was angry the right word? No. She’d been more upset than angry; she’d been worried about a tart.
Mercy didn’t seem the sort of get vapors; most females he knew denied the existence of brothels, despite prostitution’s flagrant prominence in Seattle society. When she’d talked of Lucky Island fire lit her eyes, she poked out her pointy chin, her cheeks burned. He wondered why. Prostitution was Seatttle’s proverbial elephant in the room and most women ignored it with a studied indifference. Mercy discussed it as if she had a personal vendetta. Of course, he’d just met her, and yet, he felt as if he’d always known her. He set down his drink and scanned the room, seeking her out, even though she’d said she had other plans.
As he watched the guests mill around the ballroom, he recognized that Seattle was changing. The sleepy port of three thousand had grown to nearly forty thousand in the past decade. Shops, farms, lumber mills and a host of other businesses sprouted like weeds along the smelly sea port, over the hills, and out into the countryside. A few even came close to his grandmother’s territory. He smiled thinking about how his grandmother would react to neighbors.
The band members whom he’d spotted drinking homemade whiskey behind the outhouses moments ago arrived on stage and picked up their instruments. The men, obviously self trained musicians, burst into a rousing rendition of My Wild Irish Rose.
Trent pushed away from the table and bumped into a woman with furiously batting eyelashes. He didn’t look the lady in the eye as she pressed towards him and he brushed past with a quick apology. He scanned the room for Chloe.
His sister could shoot a deer between the eyes from forty paces, wield a Bowie with deadly accuracy, and had an equally lethal temper, but still he worried. His conversation with Mercy hadn’t eased his tension. He could almost hear her say, what if girls are being abducted and pressed into service? He thought of Rita and his stomach turned. He had to tell his sister and grandmother, but he couldn’t. Not yet. Not until he knew for sure. Was the discovery of her jewels proof enough?
He supposed he could arrange a visit to the brothel. He’d have to sell a filly. The brothel had an exclusive cliental, and he doubted he could ask to see all of the girls until he found Rita. He could say his tastes ran towards tiny brunettes with strawberry birthmarks on their upper arms, but that would raise suspicions. He wanted his grandmother’s advice, but he didn’t want to ask. Why needlessly alarm her? As if she wasn’t already frightened and panicked over the disappearance of her granddaughter. He could press a group of his friends into visiting Lucky Island, all asking for small brunettes, but that would cost several fillies and could get very messy. Besides, he didn’t want to scare Steele more than he already had. He hoped the theft of Rita’s jewels had caused the man to sweat.
He ran his finger along his collar, pulling at his tie. Mrs. Ludlum and her daughter, Dorothy, had spotted him. Mrs. Ludlum wore a ruby red dress with faux jewels studded across her enormous bosom. Dorothy, who lacked her mother’s impressive prow, looked hot and uncomfortable in a yellow dress that made her look jaundiced. He tried not to watch as they twittered behind Mrs. Ludlum’s fan. He felt like he was watching the flight of a bee while being drenched in honey -- knowing that the consequences given the circumstances were inevitable if escape wasn’t made and yet unable to avoid the sting.
*****
Mercy tried to follow Eloise’s chatter, but her eyes kept straying to the man near the stage. His blue eyes panned the room and she felt herself shrinking every time he looked her direction. Was her blackened hair convincing? She’d also lost considerable weight on the voyage. Was it enough? Would he recognize her? Of course, he was supposed to believe her dead. She’d staged her suicide. Had he, or anyone, been deceived? She hadn’t stayed in New York long enough to find out.
Mercy clung to the back wall and tried to be invisible, but with Eloise and her attending menagerie of men bouncing around it was hard to accomplish. She needed to leave before Steele saw her. Where was Miles? She felt a flash of irritation towards her supposed escort.
“Excuse me, Miss,” a strapping young man who a ruddy cheeked fresh scrubbed look touched Mercy’s elbow. He had red hair brushed off his forehead and an army of freckles marching across his nose. “Would you care to dance?”
Mercy couldn’t look him in the face. “I’m sorry,” she said, addressing his boots. “I’m afraid I’ve a touch of a headache.” She didn’t want to turn him down, but she couldn’t let him, or anyone else, dance her in Steele’s direction.
The youth looked relieved and let out a woof of air.Mercy wondered if his mama had sent him her way. “Can I get you lemonade then?”
Mercy smiled. “That would be lovely.”
After the young man had left on his errand, Eloise slapped Mercy’s arm with her fan. “What’s wrong with you? That’s the fourth partner you’ve turned down.”
Mercy attempted a laugh. “You’re keeping score? Come friend, you’ve been too busy dancing to keep track of my suitors.”
Eloise flushed, and Mercy didn’t know if it was from the exertion of dancing. “You haven’t danced once,” Eloise complained.
Mercy thought back to the last dance she and Eloise had attended. It had been wildly fun; they’d both danced every dance, their partners a whirl of new faces, a buffet of men in every shape and flavor. She had been fun and she wondered if she’d ever feel that carefree again…Not as long as Steele remained.
“I’m sorry, sweetie, I’m not feeling well.”
“Oh, do you think you could have caught what struck Miles and me yesterday?”
Highly unlikely, Mercy thought. She rubbed her head and asked, “Do you think Miles could drive me home?”
Eloise put her arm around her. “That was the oddest malady, Miles and I both slept the entire evening.”
“And you missed your drive with Mr. Steele.” Mercy commiserated.
Eloise frowned in Mr. Steele’s direction. “And what’s worse is now he won’t even look at me.”
Mercy shook her head. “I’ve been told he’s very pompous. Much too important to be stood up for a case of the vapors.”
Eloise stamped her foot. “It wasn’t vapors. I don’t know what it was, but it wasn’t intentional.”
“Of course not,” Mercy said, hugging Eloise. She broke away, noticing the returning youth. “Oh dear, here comes my lemonade.”
They both watched the ruddy boy weave through the crowd bearing the lemonade like a lantern.
“And now you’ll have to chat with him to repay his kindness, and he looks about as conversational as a turnip.” Eloise stood on her tiptoes. “I’m sure Miles would love to take you home.” Eloise constantly schemed to place Mercy and Miles in close proximity. “If we can ease him from the gaming tables.”
Mercy pointed across the room. “Look, here comes Donovan.” Eloise’s would be suitor had spotted her and bore down on them like a beagle with a fallen bird in view.
Eloise’s mouth turned down. “He’s too tame.”
“I think he’s darling.” Dark, brown-eyed, and built like Adonis, the man could pose as Greek statuary. “Kissable lips.”
Eloise looked at him over her fan. “You don’t find him, I don’t know, predictable?”
Well, there was that. There was no arguing that Donavon had made Eloise his objective and seemed impossible to thwart off-course. He beelined their direction.
“Will you dance with him?”
“Again? I thought I’d lost him.”
Mercy laughed. “Is that why you’re hiding out here with me?”
“HA! So you admit it! You are hiding!”
“As are you! Now, will you help me find Miles or will you dance with Donovan?”
Eloise tapped her chin with her fan, her eyes lingering on the approaching Donovan. Mercy knew her answer.
“Well
, if you’re sure you don’t want to dance,” Eloise said, drawing out her words.
“I’m really sure,” Mercy said.
“Very well, I’m sure you can find Miles in the card room.”
Mercy drew her friend in tight hug. “Thank-you.”
Donovan arrived at Eloise’s elbow looking flushed and lovesick. “It would be much more fun if you stayed,” Eloise said over her shoulder as Donovan drew her away, his face a study of love mingled with determination.
“I’m afraid I won’t be any fun tonight.” Mercy squeezed her friend’s hand and then watched her move away with Donovan. Mercy ducked behind a pillar and watched the young man bearing her lemonade circle the room, clearly confused. Mercy stayed in the back, mindful to keep in the corners where the flickering wall sconces did little to break the darkness. A glimmering chandelier bedecked with innumerable candles and pieces of cut crystal hung in above the center of the ballroom, but Mercy stayed where the chairs lined the walls, avoiding the boy with the lemonade and anyone else who tried to make eye contact.
The lobby’s double doors stood open and a cool breeze blew down the deserted hall. Mercy took a deep breath. It felt good to be free of the ballroom’s perfume and body odors. The music, blaring and jingling in the other room muted to a background noise. The tension in her shoulders eased.
Tables, men and smoke filled the gaming salon. Mercy stood outside the door considering how best to flush out Miles. Long, lanky with dark curly hair, Miles lounged in his chair, looking at his cards with a smirk on his lips.
Mercy’s heart picked up speed when she recognized Wallace. He looked just as handsome and brutish as he had on the ship. She stepped deeper into the alcove, praying he wouldn’t notice her. As if he read her thoughts, he glanced up at Mercy with ice blue eyes and then returned to his cards. From her vantage point she could see he held a pair of kings and three fours. He hadn’t recognized her. The relief made her knees weak.