by Keli Gwyn
“I wanted to make sure Tildy had a good view.”
“Tildy? Yes, of course. Thank you.” And here she thought he’d saved it for her. But why would he when she’d made it clear they were friends and nothing more? Apparently he wanted to show her that he honored her wishes. She should be happy, but hollowness filled her instead.
“This place is lots fancier than I expected. Mama said it might be—”
“I said it might not be quite like the venues she’s been to before.”
He grinned. “No, but it is a step above a barn.”
Tildy giggled. “It smells a lot better than one. Are all those flowers yours?” She pointed at a huge floral arrangement gracing the base of the stage and filling the room with a rich perfume.
“They are.”
“My dear, we should take our seats.”
“Allow me.” He held out his arm to Tildy, who took it and beamed.
Once seated, Elenora smoothed her skirts. Mr. Rutledge leaned over so close his mustache brushed her cheek, and she shivered. He whispered, and with the noise level in the room, she strained to hear him. “I hope you enjoy the performance, Ellie.”
He straightened, bowed, and slipped behind the curtain.
The crowd seemed to take his departure as a sign. Conversation ceased, and they filled the benches. Once the rustling of fabric ended, the room grew so quiet she could hear the pocket watch of the man behind her ticking.
All eyes were riveted on the doorway to the right of the stage. Will Dupree entered with Mrs. Rutledge and escorted her to the seat on the opposite side of Tildy amidst a polite round of applause.
When the room had once again grown silent, the conductor, Mr. Morton, stepped through the curtain and addressed the assembly. “Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in acknowledging our esteemed host, Mr. Miles Rutledge, who graciously allows us use of the hall.” Enthusiastic applause followed the introduction.
He welcomed everyone and slipped behind the heavy draperies. A hush fell over the room as the curtains opened. Elenora’s skin tingled. This was no gathering of fiddlers. The Mud Springs Musical Society was an orchestra.
All this time Mr. Rutledge had allowed her to believe he was a simple fiddler. He’d had fun at her expense.
Tildy tugged on Elenora’s sleeve. She held a finger to her lips as she leaned toward her daughter.
“Mama,” she whispered, “it’s not going to be fiddling, is it?” The corners of her mouth drooped.
“I don’t believe so, dearest, but I do think we’re in for a treat. Let’s watch and see.” She worked to sound cheerful for Tildy’s sake, but the thickness in her throat made getting the words out difficult. Mr. Rutledge knew how much she loved classical music, and yet he’d deprived her of the anticipation. A punch in the stomach would have caused less pain.
How could he have allowed her to labor under a false impression for so long? He might look like a gentleman, but his behavior was unfitting of one. Just wait until this concert was over. She’d let him know exactly what she thought of his deception.
Sheriff Hank Henderson rose and stepped forward. “Our first number will be ‘Contented Peace,’ an aria by Johann Sebastian Bach.” He bowed, returned to his chair, and rested his cello between his knees.
Mr. Morton stepped onto his platform and raised his baton. The orchestra began, and Elenora closed her eyes so she could focus on the music instead of a certain musician whose silence had led her to say things that cast her in a poor light. She struggled to remember what she’d said to Abe, Will, and the sheriff. They’d done nothing amiss and didn’t deserve her wrath. Whatever she’d said to Mr. Rutledge, though, was deserved and paled in comparison with what he’d hear later this evening when she could get a moment alone with him.
When she opened her eyes, she scowled at him, and he met her gaze. Then he did the unthinkable. He winked at her in a totally ungentlemanly display, and her blood boiled. He’d known all along what he intended to do and was enjoying himself. Well, he’d find out she wasn’t a woman to cross.
Three short selections followed the aria, another piece by Bach and two by Handel. In spite of her pique, she had to admit the performance was as polished as any she’d heard back East. She’d wanted no part of the folk group Abe and the others had invited her to, but to be a full-fledged member of this orchestra would suit her just fine. Although there were no women among their number, she could be the first.
When Mr. Morton stepped forward to introduce the finale, he had everyone’s full attention. “Ladies and gentleman, as is the tradition at the Mud Springs Musical Society’s summer concert, we’ve prepared a special selection for your listening pleasure. I know there’s been intense speculation, but every member of the Society pledged to keep the name of the work in strict confidence. It’s my pleasure to announce that we will be performing The Four Seasons by Antonio Vivaldi. Our featured soloist for the entire work will soon be revealed. Please enjoy our rendition.”
Elenora inhaled sharply.
Tildy pulled on her sleeve again. “What is it, Mama?”
“It’s an incredible piece. There will be four concertos of three movements each. The first concerto is called ‘Spring.’ One violinist is pitted against the entire orchestra in a magnificent solo. It takes a talented musician to play that part. You might like this.”
Her eyes were riveted on the stage. Who was to perform the solo? The orchestra had begun, and yet not one of the violinists had risen. The solo began thirty seconds into the piece. One of the men would have to stand soon.
A full fifteen seconds of the first movement elapsed before the soloist arose. When he did, she gasped. “It’s him!” Heat rushed to her cheeks, and she clamped a hand over her mouth. A couple of people snickered.
When Mr. Rutledge reached his first rest about a minute into the number, Tildy tapped Elenora on the shoulder. Elenora leaned over, her eyes never leaving him.
“He’s good, isn’t he, Mama?”
She was careful to keep her voice low. “Yes, quite good.” He was an incredibly gifted violinist, although that truth rankled. Why was this solo always given to a man? She’d spent weeks practicing these concertos back in Omaha and was sure she’d been better than anyone else who’d auditioned for the part, and yet the conductor had chosen Mr. Lent. The banker had done a passable job, but her instructor agreed her performance was superior. Even so, she’d been denied admittance to the orchestra.
Had she arrived in El Dorado earlier and learned about the Society, she might be the one up front receiving the admiring glances. Unless, of course, Mr. Morton was as closed-minded as his chosen soloist. She intended to find out.
Although Mr. Rutledge had made a fool of her, she rarely had the opportunity to hear her favorite piece performed and wasn’t about to let him rob her of the pleasure. She would enjoy the music—even if the featured musician was a shameless trickster.
The over forty minutes it took for The Four Seasons to be performed passed all too quickly. Elenora savored every movement, every measure, every note as the music transported her to another plane.
Try as she might, she couldn’t help but admire Mr. Rutledge. He was exceedingly handsome tonight with his fine features relaxed and his brilliant blue eyes shining with obvious joy. Better than that, though, was his execution of the famous composition. His skill as a violinist rivaled her own. Clearly he felt the music to the depths of his soul. She’d never seen anyone move as fluidly as he did, resting much of his weight on the balls of his feet and swaying from side to side with grace befitting a ballet dancer.
After he’d taken his final bow and the thunderous applause finally subsided at the conclusion of the concert, Tildy rushed up to him. Mrs. Rutledge smiled at her son and turned to Elenora. “Miles practiced for months and couldn’t have been more prepared, but my dear boy was so anxious he couldn’t eat supper. I do believe he’s outdone himself.”
“He’s an accomplished violinist.”
His mother beamed.
“This was the most ambitious undertaking the Society has attempted. They’ll have to go a long way to top tonight’s performance. And now if you’ll excuse me, I want to congratulate the musicians.”
Elenora longed to leave, but courtesy demanded she stay for the refreshments. Perhaps if she were to engage in conversation with her customers and new friends, she could avoid speaking with Mr. Rutledge tonight while her emotions were awhirl. She needed time to think before she confronted him, or she could have trouble keeping her tongue in check.
Miles wanted nothing more than to talk with Ellie, but she seemed to be avoiding him. Although she hadn’t taken her eyes off him during his solo, she hadn’t looked his way since. He longed to hear her impression of the concert. Hopefully tonight had served to change her opinion of El Dorado. The town might be small, but the citizens were every bit as talented as those back East.
He positioned himself near the door so she couldn’t slip out unnoticed. At length she tore Tildy away from her friend Constance and prepared to leave.
When Ellie neared, he ended his conversation with the grocer, stepped into her path, and assumed his most gentlemanly tone. “Mrs. Watkins, might I escort you and Tildy home?”
She scanned the hall where small clusters of people still visited. “That’s not necessary. Besides, you’ll need to lock up once everyone leaves.”
“I’ll be back before they notice I’ve gone. Shall we, Tildy?”
She took his extended hand. Ellie pressed her lips together and frowned, but she didn’t protest, which he took as a good sign.
He kept Tildy talking until they stood at the back of Ellie’s shop. She groped in her reticule for the key, let herself in, and busied herself lighting candles while he waited outside the open door with Tildy. He gave her a hug, speaking beside her ear as he did. “Good night, Tildy girl. And now, I’d like a few minutes with your mother—alone.”
She whispered. “Are you going to kiss her?”
He’d like to—very much—but whether or not she’d be receptive remained to be seen. “I’m going to ask her about the concert.”
Ellie appeared in the doorway, the flickering candlelight making it impossible to read her expression. “It’s way past your bedtime, sweetheart, so please bid Mr. Rutledge good night.”
“I already did, so I’ll get ready for bed.” She took the candle from Ellie and headed up the stairs.
“Hmm. She usually begs me to stay up a little longer. Thank you for seeing us home.” She reached for the doorknob, but he caught her hand.
“Ellie, please. Don’t go just yet.”
The light from the candle she’d left on the table illuminated a portion of her face, which still gave no indication what she was thinking. He raised her hand and pressed it to his lips. She jerked free.
“Mr. Rutledge! How dare you, especially after what you did to me.”
“What did I do?”
“I came to town, and you accused me of deceiving you when I’d done no such thing. But you knowingly misled me. All this time you allowed me to believe you were a fiddler and that the Mud Springs Musical Society was a folk music group. Not only that, but you winked at me.”
She had seen him. He’d regretted his impulsive action and hoped she’d missed it. “You’re right. I did deceive you. And it was wrong of me.”
“Why did you do it?”
“I didn’t like your high-and-mighty attitude. You marched into town and belittled our music, so I thought I’d show you how wrong you were.”
She clapped a hand to her chest. “Me? I was honest about how I felt. You weren’t.”
He rested a hand on her forearm. “I made a poor choice, and I admit that. But I’m trying to apologize. Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?”
She pressed her lips into a tight line. “Why should I?”
“Because you know I’m telling the truth. And because friends forgive one another.”
Her expression softened. “Friends do. But are we really friends?”
“You’re mine. And I’d like to be yours, if you’ll stop fighting me at every turn.”
“I don’t.”
“You do, but I don’t think I’m your real adversary.”
Her eyes roved over his face. “Who is then?”
“You are. You’re so eager to prove you can succeed, but no one is asking for proof.”
Several seconds went by before she replied, “You certainly proved how prideful I can be. I was rather outspoken, and I’m sorry about that.”
“Apology accepted.” He smiled.
She reached up, and her fingertips grazed the red spot below his chin. “A violinist’s badge of honor.”
He’d never thought of it like that, but he liked the way she said it. He took her hand in his, placed a kiss on her upturned palm, and closed her fingers over it.
She cradled her fisted hand to her chest. “The Musical Society played well, and your Vivaldi solo was one of the best I’ve ever heard.”
“Thank you. That means a great deal, coming from you.”
“You have talent, but I’m not about to fawn all over you—or stop trying to best you.”
He chuckled. “I should hope not.”
“I’m glad we’re in agreement on that. Good night, Mr. Rutledge.” She gave him a saucy smile, went inside, and closed the door.
Will was right. She wasn’t like Irene, who’d turned his head with her self-serving flattery. Ellie’s praise, though slow in coming, was genuine. He strolled back to the hall feeling ten feet tall.
Chapter 15
The rustle of skirts and thudding of bootheels caught Elenora’s attention the following Monday. She spun around and found a group of women ambling along the walkway in her direction.
“You’re just the woman we wanted to see,” Mrs. Olds said. “I was helping Miss Crowley with her grocery order this morning, and she said you were seen talking to Mr. Morton after the concert. Several other women saw the same. Word is you’re thinking of gaining admittance to the Musical Society.”
Elenora did her best to appear unruffled. “I spoke with several people that evening, including the conductor. I congratulated him on the performance.”
Jane Abbott stepped to the front of the group. “My mother said she heard you ask when you could meet with him. Please, say you did.”
“I don’t think I should—” She looked from one woman to the next, all wearing expectant expressions. “Yes. I set up a time to discuss my music with him.”
Pearl smiled. “You’ll be the first woman admitted to the Society.”
“I have no idea whether or not Mr. Morton will allow me to audition.”
A stout woman with an expression as sweet as molasses pushed up her spectacles and grinned. “He will.”
Elenora didn’t know what to say, so she shrugged.
“I know,” the woman continued, “because after the concert he told me about your request. He was hesitant to meet with you, but I convinced him times are changing and said the members of the Society had best prepare themselves for it. He waffled a bit, but I can be quite persuasive.”
“He told you? Why?”
Several women chuckled, but Pearl explained. “This dear woman is Mrs. Morton. She’s been up in Grass Valley helping her niece with a new baby but arrived home in time for the concert.”
“Oh!” Elenora’s scalp tingled, and her skin turned to gooseflesh. “Are you saying he’s actually decided to let me audition? That’s wonderful.”
Miss Abbott bobbed her head so enthusiastically her golden curls bounced. “It’s high time the men of El Dorado realized how capable we women are. I, for one, can’t wait to see the look on Mr. Rutledge’s face when you walk into the hall for practice Thursday. He’ll have to eat those words of his.”
“Hush, Jane.” Lucy Lyle frowned at her friend. “It’s impolite to repeat hearsay.”
“It’s not hearsay. I heard him with my own ears talking to Mr. Dupree. He said”—Miss Abbott smoothed her ha
ir in a gesture just like Mr. Rutledge’s and lowered her voice—“ ‘I have plans of my own, and, willful woman though she is, I’ve no doubt she’ll see things my way once I have my say.’ ”
Miss Abbott’s impression caused several of the women to laugh, but Elenora forced a smile. So he thought she was willful, did he? Well, he’d not seen anything yet. She’d convince Mr. Morton of her ability, saunter into the next Musical Society rehearsal, and show Mr. Rutledge what she was made of.
At precisely eleven o’clockTuesday, Miles entered the barbershop.
“You’re right on time.” Abe held out a hand to the black leather chair, and Miles sank into it.
He closed his eyes and inhaled the rich woodsy fragrance that greeted him every morning when he performed his ablutions. Nothing smelled quite as good as his favorite shaving soap, and nothing left him feeling as well groomed as a close shave. If folks didn’t already think him a dandy, he would come to Abe for his every day. No one knew how to trim a mustache as well as his friend.
The weekly half hour with Abe relaxed Miles like nothing else. Not that he was tense. Far from it. Things had changed the night of the concert. He’d pulled a few bricks out of the wall Ellie hid behind. She’d even reached out and touched him, caressing the red mark below his chin with her fingertips. He heaved a contented sigh.
The barber draped a sheet over Miles. “You look plumb tuckered out. I reckoned you would’ve recovered by now. It’s been three days.”
He opened his eyes. “Recovered? What do you mean? I don’t think I could’ve enjoyed the concert more.”
Abe grabbed the shaving mug and brush, and whipped up a frothy mass of soap bubbles. “Then what I’m seein’ is a man at peace, that it?”
Was he? Will had said something similar yesterday. Maybe his friends were right. The world appeared brighter than it had in a long while. Colors seemed more vivid than usual, scents stronger, and Mother’s cooking tastier. Even the lather on his face felt better than he remembered. Normally he didn’t notice, but things were different. He was different.