“Not precisely. But I did feel your fingers tighten on my forearm, and since it did not appear that you had lost your balance, I guessed perhaps you were somewhat trepidatious about having to meet so many strangers.”
He did not appear to miss much, this Jeremiah Wilcox. She would have to keep that in mind. Then again, it was rather invigorating to be around someone who so clearly kept his wits about him. Yes, Walter had been very clever, well-read and prepared to argue politics or philosophy or whatever else might have caught his fancy that particular week, but so many of the other men she’d known in New York were preoccupied with their portfolios and their racehorses, and not terribly much else.
“I believe I will survive the gauntlet,” she declared, “so long as you’re at my side.”
Even in the darkness, she could see how his eyes glinted at her remark. “I will stick to you like a cocklebur, my dear Mrs. Simms.”
Then there wasn’t time for any further conversation, for they had reached the front steps of the schoolhouse. As promised, Jeremiah kept a firm grip on her arm, releasing it only so she might pause to sign the register while he paid for their admission — the princely sum of twenty-five cents each. The woman sitting at the table took the coins, but her blue eyes were sharp as they took in what felt like every aspect of Lorena’s appearance, from the carved tortoiseshell comb in her hair to the drape of her bustle.
“Mrs. Adams, may I introduce Mrs. Simms?” Jeremiah said, his tone quite formal now. “She is passing through Flagstaff on her way to San Francisco, and I thought to introduce her to something of our local pastimes before she must head out west. Mrs. Simms, Mrs. Adams is our dressmaker. I feel that sometimes my sister and my sisters-in-law spend more time in her shop than they do at home.”
“Very nice to meet you, Mrs. Simms,” Mrs. Adams said, smiling, although she sent a reproving glance up at Jeremiah. “I do not think that is quite an accurate assessment, Mr. Wilcox, although I will say that the Wilcox women do have a good eye for fashion. That is quite a lovely gown, by the bye, Mrs. Simms.”
“Why, thank you,” Lorena replied. “I had it made up not too long before I left New York, and hoped I would have a chance to wear it on this trip.”
“Ah, New York,” Mrs. Adams said. “That makes sense.”
While Lorena was attempting to puzzle out that remark, Jeremiah thanked Mrs. Adams for their dance cards and then drew his companion away, off to the impromptu cloakroom on one side of the chamber, where a number of coat racks clustered like a strange skeletal forest.
“If I might,” he murmured, and drew the cloak from her shoulders.
It was a strangely intimate gesture. Or perhaps it only seemed that way because she felt his fingers brush across the silk covering her shoulders before he lifted the cloak and hung it from one of the racks. Still, she had to repress a small shiver as she stood there. Her mind wanted to stray to how it might feel to have those strong hands of his touching far more of her.
And that she absolutely could not allow it to do. Scandalous enough to entertain those sorts of thoughts when she was alone in her own chamber. She absolutely could not be thinking such shameful things in a room where she was surrounded by strangers.
Currently, the Lancers Quadrille was in progress. A quick inspection of the dancers’ movements told Lorena they were only on the second figure, which meant they had at least fifteen or twenty minutes before the dance ended. Since it was not the sort of thing where one could just simply cut in the way one might in a waltz or polka or mazurka, she knew that she and Jeremiah would have to wait on the sidelines until it was over.
“Perhaps a cup of punch while we wait?” he asked. “And I see my sister Emma and her husband Aaron over by the refreshment table. The rest of my family did not care to attend this evening, but if you would not mind an introduction — ”
“No, I would not mind,” Lorena said, rather too hastily, although she was somewhat surprised that he would introduce her to his family on such a short acquaintance. Then again, it would seem far more odd to avoid the introduction when they were so clearly to be thrown together.
He smiled and took her arm again, and led her along the side of the room, passing those who sat and gossiped and drank their punch as they watched the dancers. Lorena allowed herself to glance around quickly, noting the swags of autumn leaves over the windowsills and doorways. The room itself was plain enough, simple board walls and floors and not much else, but it felt warm and welcoming because of the fall color and the light from the kerosene wall lamps.
At the far end of the chamber was a long table with a cut-glass punch bowl and a miscellany of cups clustered around it — cups probably donated for use tonight by a variety of Flagstaff’s denizens. Several people stood by the refreshment table, men in frock coats similar to the one Jeremiah wore, if not as well-cut, and women in bustle dresses of wool or cotton, but Lorena guessed at once that the woman in the gown of elegant dark green and black silk plaid must be Jeremiah’s sister. She had his same night-dark hair and eyes, although her skin was smooth and white, the contrast striking, vivid. At her side stood a tall man, also dark-haired. Indeed, Lorena would not have been surprised to learn that he was also a Wilcox, although she knew he must be the brother-in-law, and therefore probably not a blood relation at all.
The woman — Emma — smiled at Jeremiah and Lorena as they approached. “You must be Mrs. Simms,” she said. “I’m Emma Garnett, and this is my husband Aaron.”
“I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance,” Lorena responded, relaxing slightly. There was nothing but friendly curiosity in Emma’s eyes. If she thought it strange that her brother had brought a woman he’d just met to the harvest dance, she gave no sign of it.
“Very good to meet you, Mrs. Simms,” Aaron added. He had a warm, welcoming sort of voice and an easy manner, the sort that made one feel immediately comfortable. “And how are you finding our little town?”
“‘Little’?” Emma repeated in mock indignation. “Why, we passed two thousand residents just last week.”
“It’s very beautiful,” Lorena said. “I’m especially glad I came at this time of year, for the aspen trees are delightful.”
“As I told you, Mrs. Simms hails from New York City,” Jeremiah put in. “While two thousand residents might seem like a good number to us, I doubt it will impress her.”
“It is impressive that so many people have come here to work and live,” she said. “To start over in a brand-new place — that takes a special kind of courage, does it not?”
At those words, Jeremiah and Emma exchanged an unreadable glance. What that was about, Lorena wasn’t quite sure. Yes, Jeremiah had mentioned that his family had relocated here from New England, but there wasn’t anything so very extraordinary about that. Thousands of people had left the more settled parts of the county to begin new lives out here on the frontier.
“Well, you are doing rather the same thing, aren’t you, Mrs. Simms?” Jeremiah said then. “For you are on your way to San Francisco.”
“Yes, but I have been there before,” she replied, going on to explain, “My family has had a house in San Francisco for some twenty years now. We traveled there every year when I was younger, but then my father’s health began to fail, and so we remained in New York for our winters, rather than going to California. Other…circumstances…prevented me from returning during these past few years, true, but it is not as if I am going to a wholly new place.”
Emma’s dark eyes were sympathetic, as though she had filled in the blanks of Lorena’s story. How much had Jeremiah told her? At least that this Mrs. Simms was a widow, and therefore perfectly respectable. It was probably not so hard to surmise that the “circumstances” Lorena had just mentioned involved her marriage and the death of her husband. She regretted that she and Walter hadn’t gone to San Francisco that last winter, the winter before her world had changed so irrevocably, but the social whirl in New York had consumed them so much that they decided they simp
ly didn’t have the time, and they could always go again next year.
Time. Something they had thought they would have plenty of.
She brushed those unpleasant thoughts away. The Wilcoxes had suffered their own losses as well. There were all those wives of Jeremiah, for one thing. He had made no mention at all of his parents, only of his siblings, and so she guessed his mother and father must have passed away some time ago. Her own father had begun to grow thin and weak when she was only twelve, and died two days after her thirteenth birthday. Thanks to his careful management of the family’s money, they had not suffered materially from his death, but it still had been difficult. The one thing Lorena had to comfort her was that her father approved of Walter, had said of her childhood playmate that he would most likely be her husband one day.
Indeed, perhaps that approval from beyond the grave had played a role in her settling on Walter as the companion of her future years.
“Well, as you said, you chose a good time to pass through,” Aaron said. “And no doubt the winter in San Francisco will be far more comfortable than in New York.”
“Or here in Flagstaff,” Emma added with a smile. “Why, last winter we had drifts so high I worried they would block the ground-floor windows entirely.”
“That does sound rather desperate,” Lorena agreed. “In New York City itself, I have not often seen snow like that, although it is a far different story in the upper part of the state.” After she made the comment, she felt rather foolish, though, for she realized that the Wilcoxes had come here from New England, and so probably knew all too well what the weather was like in upstate New York.
But no one commented on the remark. Instead, Jeremiah offered her some punch, which she gratefully took. It felt good to wet her throat as the others went on to discuss the prospects for the weather that fall, and if they thought the snows might come as early as the beginning of November, as they had the year before.
Then the quadrille ended, and a crowd of thirsty dancers headed toward the refreshment table. Lorena and her little group stepped out of the way to allow them room, and the conversation rather flagged after that. Apparently the two musicians were enthusiastic sorts, however, for only moment or two later they played the opening chords to “The Blue Danube,” signaling that it was time for everyone to return for more dancing.
At the sound, Lorena’s heart leapt. She did love that piece.
Whether her expression had changed, she didn’t know, but Jeremiah turned to her and said, “Would you care to dance?”
Of course she would. She nodded, and he offered her his hand so they could move onto the dance floor. Very well, it wasn’t a proper dance floor, only a space that had been cleared by, she presumed, moving the classroom’s desks to another part of the building. However, in that moment she didn’t much care. All she cared about was that soon she would be waltzing with Jeremiah Wilcox.
One introductory note so the dancers might make their courtesies to their partners, and then his right arm was sliding around her waist, while she settled her left hand on his broad shoulder. They clasped their free hands, and the dance began, slowly at first, but soon coming to full tempo, the two of them twirling around one another as they made their circuit of the floor.
Oh, this was heavenly. She was so very conscious of him, of the warmth of his fingers, the strength of the arm that led her easily and gracefully through the movements of the dance. He was a marvelous dancer. Lorena didn’t know why she should be surprised by that, but she was. And the warm scent that rose from his clothing — sandalwood, perhaps? She wanted to breathe him in, to lose herself in his arms. It had been so very long since anyone had held her like this.
But she hadn’t lost so much control of her emotions that she would allow herself to move any closer than propriety dictated. Lorena knew she should be happy that the dance allowed them to have this sort of contact, which otherwise would surely be frowned upon if shared anywhere except the neutral territory of the dance floor.
It was only that she had spent the last five years so isolated and alone. Yes, that had to be why her breathing quickened and her heart pounded so heavily against her tight stays. Back in the day, she had been quite the accomplished flirt, enjoying her exchanges with the men who pursued her, knowing all the while that none of them could touch her heart. None except Walter, of course, but he was different.
And yet here she was, feeling giddy as a sixteen-year-old girl attending her first ball. Being this close to Jeremiah Wilcox made her positively intoxicated, as if she had just consumed a cup of fine French champagne rather than the decidedly nonalcoholic punch offered here at the dance.
He was dangerous. Not because she thought he intended her any harm, but because he could have such an influence on her merely by existing.
Somehow she forced herself to not quite look up into his face, to pretend that she was keeping her gaze fixed on a neutral point somewhere over his shoulder in an attempt to prevent herself from becoming dizzy. Never in her life had a waltz made her dizzy — not until tonight, because she was dancing with him.
At last the dance ended. She pretended to be rather winded, holding a hand to her side as she allowed Jeremiah to guide her to one of the chairs that lined the walls. Whether he believed her pretense, she was not sure, but certainly he was all solicitude as he inquired whether she would like another cup of punch.
She said yes, more because she needed a moment to gather her thoughts than because the waltz had made her truly thirsty. And then she had to chide herself for staring at him in admiration as he walked away to fetch the drink for her. He was so tall, such a fine figure of a man. In that moment, she wondered why every other unattached woman in the room wasn’t staring at him as well.
Perhaps it was because they’d had more time to get used to him.
After slipping her fan from her wrist, where it had dangled by a ribbon this entire time, she opened it with a practiced snap and began to fan herself, watching the crowd as she did so. No one seemed to be paying her any particular attention. Thank God. She had done her best to guard her expression during the dance, but she worried that even so she might have been too obvious, that everyone watching must have seen the spell Jeremiah Wilcox had cast on her.
He returned then, offering her the cup of punch he’d brought. She laid her fan in her lap and took the drink from him. “Thank you so much. I am sure I’ve never become so winded after a waltz before.”
“Perhaps it is the altitude,” he said gravely, but she saw the way his dark eyes danced, giving her the lie.
“Oh, yes, that must be it,” she responded. “I suppose I should have stopped to think about that.”
“I believe they are doing a polka next, so it might be wise to sit that one out — if the altitude is troubling you.”
“Yes, I think that would be a good idea.” A very good idea, actually. She had never been fond of the polka, found it to be too frenetic and not terribly graceful. It was far better to save her energy for another waltz — if she could share it with Jeremiah. That was one problem with these sorts of gatherings…people were expected to mingle, to not keep one partner to themselves all evening. However, the thought of dancing with anyone but Jeremiah wasn’t terribly appealing.
He nodded, glancing at the empty chair next to her. “May I sit?”
“Of course,” she said.
As a slightly smaller group of dancers set to with the “Fireman’s Polka,” Jeremiah settled himself next to her. The chairs that had been provided were on the small side, and she couldn’t help noticing the way he seemed to overwhelm his. Why, one chance movement, and his knee might very well brush against hers.
Not that she would mind such a thing.
“It promises to be fine tomorrow,” he remarked, apropos of nothing. “Would you be amenable to a walk in Wheeler Park in the afternoon? The grass has not survived our first frosts, I’m afraid, but the fall color there is quite spectacular.”
Truly, she would not have cared
much if the entire park was dried up and dead, as long as she could walk there with Jeremiah Wilcox. Trying not to sound too eager, she replied, “That sounds as if it would be lovely. A chance to get some last fresh air before the train comes on Monday.”
At those words, he frowned slightly, and Lorena held her breath. Was he going to ask her to extend her stay in Flagstaff? No, of course he wouldn’t do such a thing, not when they were barely acquainted. Even so, she found herself hoping he would.
But then he said, “Yes, I can see why that would appeal. How long is the journey from Flagstaff to San Francisco?”
“Three days,” she said. “And there are stops along the way, of course. But that is not the same thing as being able to really get out and enjoy oneself — if there is even much to enjoy in a place like Kingman.”
From the way his lips twitched, she gathered that what she’d just said had amused him. “No, I think you would find it a dry, dusty place. True desert, not like the high country around here. But I am glad you will have time for a bit of an excursion tomorrow. If I may come by around two o’clock? I will be done with church and luncheon at my brother Nathan’s home. And perhaps afterward, if you are not too fatigued, we could go back to the Hotel San Francisco for tea.”
It all sounded dreadfully civilized, and something she would have done back in New York — if she’d been in any mood to entertain suitors. But then, Jeremiah Wilcox wasn’t precisely a suitor. Just a lonely man who perhaps wished to fill a few hours with someone new before she disappeared from his life forever.
That thought sent a pang through her, and she quickly said, “Two o’clock would be fine. And tea afterward sounds lovely as well.”
He smiled and seemed to relax slightly. They fell into a silence then as they watched the dancers, but Lorena was not uncomfortable. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so at ease with a man.
Which, she feared, would turn out to be exactly the problem.
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The Arrangement (The Witches of Cleopatra Hill Book 10) Page 4