by Carla Kelly
“Good morning to you, Miss Carteret,” he said, not wanting to sound hearty and phony, but hoping to convey his warmth, because he was glad to see her. “Hungry?”
She nodded. “I couldn’t have managed without Chantal’s sandwich. And Papa and I ate petrified cheese and crackers last night. He tells me he doesn’t usually bother with breakfast.”
Her voice had dropped to a whisper. He knew she was mortified, because it had to be obvious to her that everyone else knew why her father never made it to breakfast. Jack also knew he could be hearty and phony now, or he could summon his courage and just touch her hand. He remembered Sayler’s Creek and the gash that his face became. His panic as he swallowed blood and choked was relieved by the firm pressure of a comrade’s hand on his arm. He knew he was not alone then, and he could return the favor now, even if she was a lady.
He touched her hand. “We don’t worry about Clarence Carteret. You’re here, and the first course is oatmeal. Come into the kitchen and meet our cook, Madeleine Sansever.”
“Chantal’s mother?” she asked, recovering smoothly.
“The very same. She is Métis.”
“Which is…”
“Someone of mixed Indian and French background. More French than Indian in her case, I think.”
She pointed to his breakfast. “Your oatmeal is going to get cold.”
“It’ll keep. Let’s find Madeleine.”
She touched his arm in turn. “I have a question for Chantal, which has something to do with my plan.”
“Say, about that plan, I . . .”
“You were too emphatic,” she said in such a serene voice. “I will forgive you. I need a plan, so let’s leave it at that. It’s still sort of feeble.”
“Plan’s a plan,” he said and gestured to the kitchen.
Eyes full of concentration, Chantal was mixing the pancake batter. Jack crooked his finger and she carefully set the long handled spoon on top of the bowl.
“Chantal, Miss Carteret has a question for you.”
She came closer, her eyes shy. Miss Carteret knelt by the child so they were on the same level, a kind touch that impressed Jack.
“Can you read, Chantal?” Miss Carteret asked.
Chantal shook her head. “I would like to,” she said so softly.
When Miss Carteret stood up and looked his way, Jack felt his face grow hot, hoping she wouldn’t ask him that same question.
But she was looking beyond him to Amelie. “What is your name, my dear?”
“Amelie.” The word came out so quietly. Jack would have to take Miss Carteret aside and tell her that since her father had died in the corral, Amelie, always a quiet child, had withdrawn even more.
“Would you like to read as well?” Miss Carteret asked.
Madeleine watched this exchange with real interest, her eyes lively. “They can learn, then read to me,” she said, holding out her hand. “I am Madeleine Sansever. I can write a bit, but that is all. This is my kitchen, and I rule it.”
Trust Madeleine to stake out her territory and make it known to another female. Jack made the proper introductions and smiled with relief when Miss Carteret held out her hand.
“I have so little skill in a kitchen that the thought of one fair terrifies me,” she said, to Madeleine’s obvious satisfaction, considering the width of the cook’s returning smile.
“Oatmeal for you?” Madeleine handed Miss Carteret a bowl.
“She’s pretty, but you mustn’t stare,” Chantal whispered to Jack.
Oh, glory, he hoped with all his heart that Miss Carteret was hard of hearing. The little shake to her shoulders indicated that there was nothing wrong with her ears.
Who could not stare? She wore a simple shirtwaist and skirt today. How Miss Carteret managed to confine her curly hair was a mystery to him. He hated to think what Wyoming Territory was going to do to such smooth skin, but he doubted she would remain here long enough to find out.
“Don’t any of you stare or I will trip,” she said as she carried the bowl into the dining hall, where he introduced her to his two hands, who rose to their feet to Jack’s utter amazement. He indicated a space at their table, hoping she didn’t feel the need to distance herself.
She eyed the bench a moment, then delicately slid toward Preacher, who had gone from ordinary putty beige to beet red.
“Ma’am,” he managed, but that was all.
Jack had never known words to fail the man. “Preacher here always blesses the food and has a chapter and verse for nearly any situation. Preach, this is Miss Carteret.”
“Ma’am.” His repertoire remained the same.
Jack indicated Indian, who had returned to his oatmeal. “Indian is some part Shoshone, and Lakota, and some part French and . . .”
“Pierre Fontaine,” Indian said with a nod.
“. . . and he’s never supplied his actual name until this very moment,” Jack finished, startled at what a lovely woman could do to his ranch hands.
“It’s a pleasure, Preacher and Mr. Fontaine,” Miss Carteret said. She gave Jack a kindly look. “Let us cease formality, sitting here on benches in Wyoming. I am Lily. So it is Jack, Preacher, and Pierre?”
“I do believe it is,” Jack replied, sitting beside her. “You’ll meet Stretch and Will later. Nick’s around here someplace.”
She nodded and turned her attention to the oatmeal, eating with a certain delicacy not seen before in the dining hall. She shook her head at the flapjacks Chantal offered, but made no move to leave the table. Maybe it wasn’t good manners to leap up before everyone was done; Jack didn’t know. He forked down a dozen of Madeleine’s dollar-sized flapjacks and then reminded himself that if Lily Carteret was on the Bar Dot, he was still foreman and she was his responsibility.
“You want to share your plan, uh, Lily?” he asked.
“It’s a small one. I intend to teach Madeleine’s girls how to read and cipher. I’ve never taught anyone anything in my life, but I won’t do it for free. How will I ever get out of here if I do? Perhaps I had better meet the Buxtons.”
“Oliver Buxton is tighter than a water-logged keg,” Jack warned.
“I won’t ask a lot, because I am not highly skilled,” Lily replied in that precise way of hers he was coming to relish. And then she endeared herself forever with a little-girl doubt. “Do you think twenty dollars a month is too much?”
“Think bigger, Lily,” he advised.
“I have no skill as a teacher,” she reminded him.
“At twenty dollars a month, it’s a mighty small plan.”
“I know, but plans can grow, can’t they?”
He saw it again, that same assessing, shrewd look he had noticed on her face when she stood in the open door of the train and surveyed the hand called Wyoming Territory that had been dealt her. He thought of his strangely won ranch, and Bismarck, and understood what she meant.
“Plans certainly can grow. Let’s go meet the boss, and more important, the Mrs. Boss.”
CHAPTER 8
The plan to teach had made a great deal of sense last night, especially after she checked on her father and stood a long time in his doorway, dismayed at the cozy way he had wrapped his hand around that wine bottle. Almost worse than the confirmation that her father was an alcoholic was the certainty that everyone knew.
“We all know why my father doesn’t make it to dinner or breakfast,” she told the foreman, trying not to inject any self-pity into her voice. “Does he do his job with any skill at all?”
“He must. Buxton hasn’t thrown him off the place yet,” He winced. “That was unkind of me.”
“It was honest,” she said, even as her insides writhed. “My father is a remittance man. He failed in Canada, he failed in India, but his biggest failure was the first one in Barbados, where he . . .” She faltered, finding it difficult to say out loud what she had known for years. “. . . married my mother.”
Jack surprised her by putting his hand on her arm again, this t
ime with enough force to stop her. “Don’t say that!”
“Well, he did. She was the daughter of an apothecary and his slave.”
He didn’t let up the pressure on her arm. “That’s not what I meant,” he said, evidently determined to be as stubborn as she was, drat the man. “Don’t classify yourself as part of a failure.”
“And how am I not?”
His gaze didn’t waver, although he did remove his hand from her arm. “There’s a song out here, Lily: ‘What Was Your Name in the States?’ I’m no singer, but here’s one verse.”
He auditioned several notes as though searching for the right one, but gave up. “If I sing, you’ll bolt for sure. ‘Oh, what was your name in the states?’ ” he said. “ ‘Was it Johnson or Thompson or Bates? Did you murder your wife and fly for your life? Oh, what was your name in the states?’ ”
She didn’t laugh, because she understood what he meant. “Everybody gets a free pass out here?” she asked.
“Everybody,” he assured her. “It’s a good faith thing.”
She wondered how many passes her father had gone through and then decided to believe the man so determined for her to succeed, even after such a brief acquaintance. It was a new feeling. No one had ever taken much interest in her before, and she liked it.
“Very well,” she said, “although I truly do not know a thing about teaching.”
He started her in motion again. “Do you like Chantal and her sister, Amelie? I’ll have to tell you sometime why Amelie is so quiet.”
“Yes, I like them. Who wouldn’t?”
“I’m no teacher, either, but could it be that’s all you really need succeed as a teacher?”
It couldn’t be that simple, but when Jack Sinclair said it, Lily knew one thing: she had an ally. What had looked good last night as she stared out the window, looked good again.
“Reading, writing, and ciphers,” she said, and permitted herself a little joke. “Why, I could probably even teach you how to read; that is, if you needed such instruction. Lead on, sir.”
The Buxtons’ dwelling was a true house, with clapboard siding, a marvelous porch with a swing, and gangly zinnias leading up the boardwalk to the door. The summer wind had exhausted the zinnias, but at least they weren’t lying down in abject submission. It takes a strong flower to survive this territory, Lily thought. Maybe it was true of people too. Jack Sinclair didn’t look like a man with any soft connective tissue anywhere.
Lily willed herself a little taller, secure in the knowledge that her shirtwaist and skirt were well-tailored and impeccable. Uncle Niles had never skimped on her clothing allowance, although she suspected that long cotton undergarments might be more useful than her silky things.
As she walked up the step, her skirt chinked on the tread. She stopped. “See there, Jack? I took you at your word and added your lead weights to my hems.”
“I am accustomed around here to having people do what I say,” he replied. “Let me know if you need any more.” He leaned toward her. “Ready?”
She nodded, and Jack knocked. The door was answered by a gentleman even more impeccable than she. From his dark tie and black suit to his general demeanor and bearing, she knew this man as surely as if they had met in Gloucestershire. The Buxtons had a butler.
She glanced at Jack, who was smiling at her. “Now maybe you won’t be homesick,” he whispered rather too close to her ear for total comfort, although she did like the sensation of his breath on her ear.
“Do come in, madam,” the butler said. “I am Fothering and you are welcome to the Buxtons’ humble home.”
Perhaps it might have been humble in a city, but on the Bar Dot, the house stood out like a gardenia among pokeweed. The Turkish carpet was almost too much, but it did go well with the heavy dark furniture—mahogany?—and the handsome windows with stained glass in the upper panes.
“This is Miss Lily Carteret, daughter of our very own Clarence,” Jack told the butler, who nodded with almost exquisite dignity. “She’s from . . .”
“Bristol, Gloucestershire,” Lily said.
“You ah doubly welcome, m’deah,” he said. “I shall see if Mrs. Buxton is available and receiving callers. Do have a seat”—he glanced at the foreman—“if there isn’t any ordure on your boots.” He executed a smart turn and left them in the sitting room.
“ ‘Ordure,’ ” Jack repeated. “I have been put in my place. It happens every time I come in here. I had to ask Preacher what ordure was. Don’t know why Fluttering—”
“Fothering,” she interrupted, trying not to smile.
“—couldn’t just have said sh . . .” He paused. “Beg pardon.”
Beyond a mere smile now, Lily mustered all her good manners to keep from disgracing herself with a laugh that welled up from some deep, unknown cavity. She struggled to contain herself, thinking of dark looks from her uncle and shocked looks from everyone at Miss Tilton’s School, if they ever found out.
Jack Sinclair helped not at all. “You know, it’s not a crime to laugh in Wyoming.”
Ah, there. The moment had passed. “You do try me,” she said. She almost made some comment about Fothering’s somewhat unusual British Isles accent, like none she had ever heard before, but it probably wasn’t her business.
The butler returned a few minutes later. “Mrs. Buxton will see you now,” he said in perfect tones to any ears but hers. He indicated the stairs.
“We won’t tax her,” Jack said as he started for the stairs that divided the downstairs rooms. “Up you go, Lily.”
He returned her questioning glance with a brief, whispered comment. “Mrs. Buxton doesn’t get downstairs too often. She’s a delicate thing.”
And so she was. After a tap on the door, Jack opened it for Lily. He gave her a little push in the small of her back when she just stood there.
Mrs. Buxton reclined in her bed, propped up by several pillows. She wore a crocheted bed jacket with blue ribbon intertwined. She looked to Lily like the bloom of health, with a delicate complexion tinged a faint blush. Her eyes were lively and she held out her hand.
“Come closer!” she said in a voice with nothing fading away about it. “So you are our Clarence’s little daughter.”
Lily couldn’t help herself. “I’ve never been guilty of being little,” she said, “but, yes, I am Lily Carteret. Delighted to make your acquaintance.”
Mrs. Buxton let her hands flutter to her heart as she rolled her eyes in ecstasy. “You sound even more English than my butler, and goodness knows he is all that is proper.” She waved toward a corner of the room. “Come here, Luella, and make yourself known.”
Lily looked toward the gesture and saw a young child with a book in her lap. They eyed each other: Lily with interest, wondering if she was the age of the Sansever girls, and Luella with something more guarded. She was dressed plainly in dark cotton with a lacy pinafore that buttoned up the front with mother of pearl buttons. Her hair was braided and pulled back so tight that Lily nearly winced for her. She was tidy and everything the little Métis girls were not. “I am delighted to meet you too,” Lily said, extending her hand, which was ignored. Lily put her hands behind her back, remembering her teachers’ “mustn’t touch” rule when the class had made a visit to the Victoria and Albert Museum in London.
She felt a finger in the small of her back again and another gentle push forward, plus a whisper from Jack, “You have a plan.”
She moved forward until Mrs. Buxton indicated a stool beside the bed. Jack moved away to sit in the window seat. Lily wished for one moment that he stood closer to her, but this was her plan.
“Lily Carteret? What a lovely name. May I call you Lily?”
“Certainly.”
“And you may call me Mrs. Buxton.”
I’ve been put into my place, Lily thought with amusement. Better get to it. She cleared her throat. “I’m delighted to be here in Wyoming Territory,” she began, and Mrs. Buxton cut her off with a hand chop.
�
�No one is delighted to be in Wyoming Territory,” the woman said with that sort of assertiveness that dared anyone to disagree. Lily heard something else: a brittle, nervous quality that made her wonder. “Wyoming is either hot or cold and always windy. The rain falls sideways, and everything smells of cow.”
Lily shrugged. “I’m happy enough with Wyoming. Perhaps not delighted, so I stand corrected, Mrs. Buxton.”
That felt like the right touch, sufficiently apologetic without sounding subservient, something she never intended to be again.
“I have a plan,” Lily said. “Mr. Sinclair showed me that little schoolhouse that you built. I propose to teach whatever children around here might be interested. It will be the fundamentals of reading, writing, and ciphering.” Mainly because that is all I think I can manage, she thought, but you don’t need to know that.
“Are you an educationist?”
Lily shook her head. “I see a need, though, and believe I can fill it.”
She glanced at Jack and was rewarded with a nod.
“I propose to teach Luella, if you are interested, and the Sansever children. I will do it for twenty-five dollars a month.”
Mrs. Buxton leaned back against her pillows, still the picture of health. Her eyes narrowed, which Lily did not take as a good sign.
“Are you implying that Luella doesn’t know the rudiments?” she asked in an awful tone of voice.
Mercy, she is as unpleasant as my uncle, Lily thought, startled. But here I am, and here I will remain if Papa stays, and I haven’t another plan.
Might as well return cool with cool. “I would imagine Luella knows great deal more than the Sansever children. Think what a good example she would be.” There, that sounded firm enough.
Mrs. Buxton’s expression became more thoughtful. “I have a better plan: I will pay you forty dollars a month to teach Luella alone. I’d rather she didn’t mingle with mixed blood children.”
“It’s not their fault, and the girls want to learn to read. I am afraid I will have to decline your generous offer to teach Luella alone.”