A bushy-bearded man wearing faded blue overalls appeared from the stable positioned toward the back of the house. Mr. Livingston climbed down from the buggy and handed the reins to him.
John and Pamela stood waiting by the fence. Under their watchful eyes, Mr. Livingston helped Elizabeth from the vehicle, tucking her hand in the crook of his arm.
He led them up the brick path and several steps to a large wooden door surrounded with Tiffany stained-glass windows. A thin woman, her gray hair pulled into a tight knob on top of her head, opened the door.
"Ah, Mrs. Graves, I see you returned before us," he said, ushering everyone into the house.
"I didn't linger after church," the woman said, smoothing the immaculate white apron she wore over a gray dress without a bustle. "I had too much to do."
"Very good." He turned to Elizabeth. "Miss Hamilton, this is my housekeeper, Mrs. Graves."
The housekeeper gave Elizabeth an unsmiling nod, the sagging flesh under her chin folding into accordion pleats. Without a change of her expressionless face, she conveyed disapproval of Elizabeth.
"You already know the Carters."
Another solemn nod.
"Perhaps you can escort the ladies upstairs to freshen up."
Elizabeth discretely glanced around the entrance hall with a tiled black-and-white floor like her home in Boston, sweeping carved stairway, and lacy plasterwork ceiling. An immediate sense of familiarity relaxed her shoulders. This is the kind of house I’d expect back East, not in Montana. I could be very happy as its mistress.
As the two women followed somber Mrs. Graves up the stairs, Elizabeth noted the mahogany furniture and rose-patterned wallpaper. The house was very different from Pamela's more casual home, but similar to many Elizabeth had known in Boston. Everything was meticulously neat. Elizabeth frowned. Caleb's home somehow lacked a lived-in feeling.
"This house needs the touch of a loving woman," Pamela whispered to her.
Elizabeth nodded, but didn't dare reply in case Mrs. Graves overheard. No use making an enemy of Caleb's housekeeper. Although it might be too late. Already, the woman seemed to dislike her.
#
Mrs. Graves led them back down the stairway and stopped at an open carved oak door. "Mr. Livingston and Mr. Carter will be in there." She waved a work-worn hand at the doorway. "I must see to the meal."
"Thank you," Pamela murmured to Mrs. Graves' stiff retreating back.
That woman would be hard to live with, Elizabeth thought in apprehension, anticipating future problems. I wonder how attached Mr. Livingston is to her?
Elizabeth followed Pamela into the drawing room. Her thoughts about the housekeeper vanished. She looked around, inhaling and releasing a contented breath.
From the pair of tufted chenille ottomans in the corners, and the blue velvet settee in front of the fireplace, to the Chinese oxblood vases on the mahogany display shelves over the mantel, everything pleased her. She could picture herself entertaining guests in this room.
Mr. Livingston approached the two women. "Mrs. Carter, Miss Hamilton, I trust Mrs. Graves made you comfortable?"
Both women nodded.
Elizabeth rushed into speech. "Mr. Livingston, I must tell you how comfortable I feel in your home. This room especially. I love blue and have decorated my parlor in Boston in similar shades to what you've done here."
"I'm glad, Miss Hamilton." He looked around. "The colors suit me." And you suit me, his brown eyes seemed to tell her.
Elizabeth's knees quivered, and she had to look away.
Pamela glanced with amusement at her husband. "I'm amazed you even care about the decor, Mr. Livingston. I could change the colors in our parlor, and John wouldn't even notice."
They all laughed.
John's face wrinkled in a grin. "Maybe so." He held up an admonishing finger. "However, I would notice if you changed something in my study."
Pamela continued her teasing. "Especially if I removed that horrid bear's head." She turned to Mr. Livingston. "John has the head of a bear, teeth and all, hanging on the wall in his study." She gave a theatrical shudder. "I don't know how he can stand it."
Elizabeth nodded in agreement. "I haven't seen it yet, but it sounds horrible."
Mr. Livingston exchanged commiserating glances with John. "Trophies are important to a man." He turned to the women. "But, I can assure you, there are no animal heads hanging anywhere in this house."
The warm glow inside Elizabeth intensified. She would have been disappointed to find his home furnished in a way that lacked good taste, but to feel so compatible.... "May I look at your piano?"
"By all means, Miss Hamilton." He crossed the room and lifted the long fringe of the beige scarf, revealing the mahogany piano underneath. "Perhaps another time you would honor me with playing."
"I'd be delighted." Before she could do more than glimpse the piano, Mrs. Graves entered the room.
"Dinner is served, Mr. Livingston."
"Splendid."
Without another word the woman left the room, and the four of them followed.
Elizabeth and Pamela exchanged a meaningful glance. In Boston, she'd never keep the dour woman as her housekeeper. However, looking around the immaculate room, she had to remind herself that good servants were scarce in Montana. As long as the woman did a good job....
When they entered the dining room, Elizabeth's pleasure in the decor increased. The blue flowered French wallpaper lined a room that could accommodate a dinner party of twenty. The table, loaded with silver, and blue-and-white china in a pattern Elizabeth didn't recognize, looked every bit as formal as any she could have set in Boston.
Mr. Livingston drew out the chair to his right for Elizabeth. "If you don't mind, I'd like us to all sit at one end of the table." He waved Pamela and John to sit across from Elizabeth. "That way we won't have to shout to be heard." As if asking for Elizabeth's approval, he smiled and lifted an eyebrow.
"That seems very sensible," she agreed.
She scanned the room. A painting of a young couple, the woman wearing a green-belled dress of an earlier era, caught her attention.
Mr. Livingston noticed her interest. "My Cabot grandparents."
"Are they the ones you'd stay with when you were younger?"
"Yes." He sent a warm glance in the direction of the portrait. "I loved my time with them. Their home was always filled with my cousins. We got in plenty of mischief."
"That sounds familiar." Pamela's smile to Elizabeth acknowledged their shared memories.
Mr. Livingston, his brows raised in inquiry, invited further explanation.
"Elizabeth has an older brother, and I have three. They were the best of friends and enjoyed playing tricks on their poor little sisters," Pamela said.
Elizabeth rolled her eyes in agreement. "I hope you were kinder to your female cousins than our brothers were to us, although knowing boys...."
His brown eyes filled with laughter, and he actually grinned at her. "I can't say that we were."
At the sight of his grin, so like Richard's, Elizabeth caught her breath and had to restrain herself from putting a hand to her mouth. Across the table she saw from Pamela's rounded eyes that her friend had seen the same resemblance.
A wave of sadness mixed with excitement washed over her. Like in a fairy tale, she'd received a second chance at happiness, and she didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
Mrs. Grave's entrance with a large platter interrupted the moment. As if her presence cast a pall over them, the conversation ceased while she moved in and out of the room with the serving dishes. Elizabeth had to give her credit. Only one woman serving a formal meal…. Yet Mrs. Graves did it with ordered efficiency.
While the men talked of ranch matters, Elizabeth concentrated on assessing Mrs. Graves' cooking ability. Although not as elaborate as a Sunday afternoon meal for company in Boston, it was similar to the food served at Pamela's--a fish course of fresh trout, a tender filet mignon, accompanied by several types of
vegetables and light-as-air rolls. The sweet baby carrots must be the first of the season, Elizabeth thought, accepting a second helping.
Caleb turned his attention to Elizabeth. "Miss Hamilton, are you by any chance related to the family who owns the Hamilton shipping business?"
"Yes. My great-grandfather started the company. My brother runs it now."
"I believe I've met your brother on a number of occasions ... three or four years ago, however."
She could almost see his estimation of her rise.
They spent the next few minutes comparing acquaintances. They had several in common.
"I wonder why we haven't met before?" Elizabeth mused.
"It does seem strange. However, I haven't been back East in two years. It's not the same since my grandparents passed away."
"I know what you mean. I've lost too many beloved family members." Their glances locked in mutual sympathy.
Mr. Livingston cleared his throat. "The worst was losing my cousin, Richard. Second cousin, actually. We were very close as boys, although we didn't see each other much when we grew older. I'm in the West. He was in the East. Didn't even write. I regret that now … Richard died from influenza in his early twenties." He briefly looked away.
Elizabeth's breath caught, and dizziness rushed to her head. Richard? My Richard! She couldn't even muster the strength to ask.
With a concerned glance at Elizabeth, Pamela came to her rescue. "Do you by any chance mean Richard Harrison?"
Mr. Livingston looked surprised. "Why, yes."
Briefly Elizabeth closed her eyes, as if to hold back the wave of old pain. Then she found her voice. "Richard and I were engaged to be married. He..." The words jammed, and she had to take a deep breath before she could go on. "He died in my arms."
She saw a similar sorrow linger in his eyes--one she'd seen many times in her own mirror. He too had suffered over the loss of Richard.
The attraction Elizabeth felt for Caleb Livingston strengthened into a bond.
Richard, my love. Have you sent this man to me? A man you loved and trusted. Is he supposed to take your place? Be my husband?
Mr. Livingston interrupted her internal conversation. "Richard wrote of you. I remember his happiness. I remember how much I envied him. I'm so sorry you lost him… We lost him." Mr. Livingston moved his hand as if to place it over hers.
Mrs. Graves entered, carrying a cloth-shrouded pie and placed it on the table between them, dispelling the heavy emotion in the air.
The woman has the worst timing. Elizabeth so needed the sympathetic touch of Caleb Livingston's hand. Couldn't Mrs. Graves have delayed her appearance by a few minutes?
"Dried apple pie," Mrs. Graves announced. She unbent enough to give her employer a faint smile. "Your favorite."
"Mrs. Graves makes the best pies." He beamed at his housekeeper.
At the taste of her first bite, Elizabeth had to agree with him. Despite her sour personality, the woman certainly could bake.
The last few minutes of the meal flew by. Elizabeth savored every moment in Caleb's presence, impressing each nuance into her memory. She probably wouldn't see him again until church next Sunday. How did a man go about courting a woman in the West? The distance to the Carter ranch would preclude the normal social calls gentlemen made to show interest and get to know a lady. She'd have to ask Pamela.
"Mr. Livingston." Pamela gave Elizabeth a barely discernible wink. "Perhaps you'd like to join us after church next Sunday for dinner."
"I'd like that very much."
His gaze connected with Elizabeth's. The smile of pleasure in his brown eyes sent warm waves of happiness through her.
"Miss Hamilton, would you care to drive with me after church?"
Yes. Yes. Yes. So this was how it was done in the West. Not so different from Boston after all.
Somehow Elizabeth managed to tone down her joy enough to give him a polite social smile. "I'd be delighted, Mr. Livingston."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Elizabeth picked up the letter resting on the dining room table, recognized Genia's handwriting, and wrinkled her nose. Somewhat to her surprise, her sister-in-law had proven to be a regular correspondent, writing several times a week.
Unfortunately, her news didn't bring Elizabeth much pleasure. All social gossip, something Elizabeth hadn't been interested in even when she lived in Boston. She preferred the letters from her friend Sylvia. Sylvia wrote about her children, other friends they had in common, and Elizabeth's special charities. They were much more meaningful, and she looked forward to receiving them.
She shrugged her shoulders, sat down, and started to read. At the sight of the first sentence she gasped and dropped Genia's letter on the table.
I know you will be overjoyed, my dear sister, to learn we are expecting a welcome addition to the family just in time for Christmas.
The sadness and regret that swept over Elizabeth didn't feel in the least joyful. Shame followed when she realized she wasn't rejoicing over her brother's good fortune. Clutching her locket, Elizabeth tried to separate her confused feelings.
During her engagement to Richard, in a favorite fantasy she imagined their children. She'd wanted four, two boys and two girls. In her mind's eye, they all had Richard's laughing brown eyes, although the girls had her long golden curls. She'd even pictured her children and Laurence's playing together. She'd loved the anticipation of being a beloved mother and aunt and could hardly wait to experience the reality.
Elizabeth released a pent-up sigh. When Richard died, she had stopped seeing herself as a wife and mother. The idea of children who would never exist had been far too painful. Even now the feeling stabbed through her heart, and she pressed the hand holding the locket against her breast as if to stop the ache.
In the following years, when Laurence hadn't looked like he'd ever marry, she'd given up on the idea of nieces and nephews, resigning herself to a life without children. Now she didn't know what to feel about a baby of Genia's. What kind of mother would her sister-in-law make? Would the child be horribly spoiled?
A picture of the spiteful women at the last dinner party in Boston flashed through her mind. At least Elizabeth wouldn't be there to overhear any more comments about her being a maiden aunt. But at the same time, she'd miss the opportunity to know and love her niece or nephew. She smoothed her thumb over the cover of her locket, torn between regret and relief.
The old daydream of her firstborn drifted across her thoughts. A boy with mischievous eyes and a lock of brown hair, which, like his father's, constantly fell across his forehead. A miniature version of Richard....
With a shock of awareness, Elizabeth straightened, the sadness banished by a feeling of excitement. A son of Caleb's would look the same way as a child of Richard's--although perhaps without the errant strand of hair....
A smile played about her mouth. Her old dream could still come true. Still holding her locket, she rose, walked into the parlor, sank into a comfortable chair, and lost herself in her rosy vision of the future.
For the first time in ten years, Elizabeth allowed herself to dream of her own children. She wiggled with childish happiness. It shouldn't be too long before Caleb proposed, maybe only a few weeks. There was no reason to wait to get married. Hopefully, he wouldn't want a large Boston wedding. She certainly didn't.
Perhaps by this time next year, she'd have a baby of her own!
#
Several days later, on her way to the barn to track down the children, Elizabeth paused by the wood-and-wire chicken pen. She wrinkled her nose at the distinct ammonia smell of the coop, and almost moved on. But one petite rusty-brown hen scratching in the dirt by itself caught her eye. The bird bobbed its head, moving away from the flock in a search for bugs and seeds.
A shuffling sound made Elizabeth turn to see Annie waddling toward her, wiping her hands on her blue calico apron. The sun glinted off the cook's shiny black hair. She shuffled to a stop next to Elizabeth. "Missy Erizabeth, what you doing?
"
Elizabeth pointed to the little hen. "Is that Sara's Mrs. Hooch?"
Annie shook her head, squinting to examine the flock. "Mrs. Hooch, she be a skinny biddy. Too tough."
"Oh."
Annie waved toward the little hen. "You rikee?"
Puzzled, Elizabeth tried to make sense out of Annie's words, "I like what?"
"You rikee chicken. You want?"
Still not sure of the cook's meaning, Elizabeth nodded. "She seems like a sweet little bird."
"She be sweet. Not rike Mrs. Hooch. I get for you."
"Wait, that's not necessary." Elizabeth raised a hand to stop her.
Annie ignored her, flinging open the gate, and stepping inside.
The chickens scattered, squawking and flapping their wings.
With determined steps, Annie waded through the flock, cornering the petite chicken against the henhouse. Leaning over, she grabbed it by the throat, and swung it around over her head.
Elizabeth stood frozen, repulsed by the snapping sound of the bird's neck.
The body separated from the head and flew against the fence, dropping to the ground where it flopped back and forth.
Elizabeth gagged.
Annie, the chicken head still clutched in her hand, picked up the carcass, and marched out of the pen, slamming the gate behind her. She strode a few yards away to a square block of wood, and tossed the body of the fowl onto the top, where it continued to twitch as if still alive. Removing a knife from her pocket, she deftly sliced open the breast.
Sickened, Elizabeth didn't wait to see more. She clapped a hand over her mouth, grabbed up her skirt with her other hand, and fled to the outhouse. When she reached the tiny building, she jerked open the rickety door. Inside the stench only added to her nausea, and she became violently ill. She emptied the contents of her stomach, vowing to never eat chicken again.
When she finished, she exited the outhouse, tottered to the trough near the barn, and pumped some water. Wetting her handkerchief, she wiped it over her face, then rinsed out her mouth. She straightened, glancing around to see if anyone had witnessed her weakness, but the barnyard area remained empty, except for a brown horse tied to a hitching post.
Wild Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series) Page 14