Zelda laughed. “So the trip was a success?”
“Very much so.” Leona looked smug. “The proprietor has asked me to come back in the spring, and I believe Jackson was suitably devastated by my absence.” Her eyes sparkled. “I didn’t have to do more than hint to him about the Englishmen to make him absolutely green with jealousy.”
Zelda remembered her own recent experience with a jealous lover. She couldn’t wait to tell Leona about Aldo. There was something immensely satisfying in having two grown men act like idiots over one’s favors.
Leona hardly took a breath. “And the portraits you made of me have resulted in still another job offer, this one in Fernie. You’re a genius, Zel. I’ve decided to have you make still another set, with different poses. Look, I’ve come prepared.” She opened the huge carpetbag she’d brought and dumped out the silky stack of dresses and a long ostrich feather boa. “I thought we’d do something sophisticated, but also just that slight bit naughty. This one’s cut rather low in the bosom, and that one’s sinfully tight across the back, and this one shows just a bit too much ankle…” She held up one gown after the other.
For the next hour, Zelda’s camera clicked away as Leona changed from one fetching gown and provocative pose to the next.
When they were done, Zelda led the way to the kitchen for a cup of tea. She found that Virgil had already made a pot, and was sharing it with Pearl and Eddy. The children, both grubby and greedy, were wolfing down scones Zelda had made that morning.
Zelda introduced them to Leona, and in a moment she had them chattering away, telling her of their new kitten and the swing Lars had made for them in their backyard.
When the children were done with their milky tea, Virgil took them back outside with him, and Leona’s face took on a meditative look. “They’re sweet, even under all that soil. Do you want to have children someday, Zelda?” She sipped at her tea, her lovely face thoughtful.
“Yes, I do.” The words didn’t begin to convey the longing Zelda felt each time she imagined Tom’s child growing inside of her. She’d even, God help her, given thought to abandoning the sponge she used so conscientiously, knowing that if she were to become pregnant, Tom would marry her.
And doing so would trap him, keep him there at her side against his will. How long would it be, then, before he began to resent her?
“I never imagined the time might come when I’d actually think of getting married and having children,” Leona said quietly. “But nowadays, I think of little else.” She paused, and then added in a rush, “The thing is, Jackson never speaks of marriage or a future together. It’s maddening, because I’m accustomed to men proposing to me at the flick of an eyelash. One of the Englishmen, for instance, proposed no less than four times. I deliberately let Jackson know, to absolutely no avail. He laughed as if it were a huge joke.” Her smooth forehead creased in a frown. “I even asked him once if perhaps he was already married, but he insisted he never has been. And I know he cares for me. It’s something a woman senses.” She shrugged and reached for a scone. “Well, I suppose it’s just going to take longer than usual.”
She met Zelda’s eyes, and after a moment color rose in her cheeks. She broke the scone open and then crumbled a bit of it between her thumb and forefinger.
“The problem is, if he waits much longer, he’ll be a father before he becomes a husband.”
Zelda stared at her friend as the import of her words registered. She gasped, then reached across and took Leona’s hand. “Oh, my. Oh, my goodness. My dear Leona. You’re expecting a child?”
Leona nodded, her face calm, but the way she clung to Zelda’s hand indicated that she wasn’t as relaxed as she pretended. “It’s so silly to be in this situation,” she said with a shaky little laugh. “I’m not a total fool, and I did take precautions. Heaven’s to Betsy, I had the best advice available. I asked the saloon girls what to use, and they showed me. But I suppose nothing’s foolproof, and there were several times…” Her face turned scarlet.
“Well, I’m sure you know what I mean. At least, I hope that you do. I mean, I’ve suspected that you and Tom –“ Her voice broke, her face crumbled, and she wailed. “Oh Zelda, what am I going to do if he doesn’t want to marry me? I’m afraid to tell him about the baby, in case he doesn’t really love me after all.”
“Of course he loves you, Leona. One look at his face when he’s with you shows that he’s besotted.”
“Then why doesn’t he say so? Why doesn’t he ever once hint that he’d like us to be together? I know it bothers him that he doesn’t earn much money, but I have an – an inheritance that would afford us a decent living. I’ve told him so.” She attempted a smile, but it didn’t quite materialize. “I’m almost rich, and I’m not ugly, and I’m certainly not old. So what is his problem, do you think, Zelda?”
For one of the few times in her life, Zelda couldn’t think of a thing to say, because she knew exactly what the problem was. It was all too obvious that Jackson hadn’t said a word to Leona about it.
It was obvious he’d never told Leona about being from that future time, or planning to return to it, which of course accounted for his reluctance in planning a future here.
Zelda opened her mouth to spill out the whole incredible story, then closed it again with a snap. Even if she could manage to convince Leona the preposterous tale was true, her friend was going to be furious, or frightened, or deeply hurt at Jackson’s deception, or more probably, all three, and she was already upset enough.
It was better to hold her tongue for the moment, Zelda decided. “You must tell him about the baby,” Zelda urged. “I’m certain that when you do, he’ll marry you immediately.”
“And that’s exactly why I won’t tell him,” Leona said in a vehement tone. “I couldn’t bear having him marry me because he had to.”
Zelda sighed. “I do understand.” All too well. “I feel the same way about Tom.”
And although it was painful to admit, Zelda also envied Leona with every fiber of her being. Fate had taken a hand in Leona’s destiny. Married or not, she still would have a child, a living, breathing reminder of the man she loved.
When Tom went away, what would she have of him, Zelda thought bitterly? Memories were cold comfort to a heart that longed desperately for living, breathing flesh.
Leona dug a lace-trimmed handkerchief out of her sleeve and blew her nose. She squared her shoulders and got to her feet. “I must go. Tom will be back from work any moment, and it wouldn’t do for him to find me here soaking the table with tears.”
Zelda got up and impulsively wrapped her arms around Leona. “Whatever happens with Jackson, you know I’ll be here for you. If we need to, we can raise the child between us. I’d adore having a baby around, and so would Dad.”
“Think what that would do to your reputation,” Leona said in a horrified voice, trying to lighten the atmosphere. She clung to Zelda for a moment, dangerously close to tears again. “You are a dear friend.” She stepped away, smiling a shaky smile. “And, of course, we’d have all the saloon girls as godmothers. Wouldn’t that just set this town on its ear?”
She walked to the door and opened it. “Heavens, I almost forgot. Jackson asked me to invite you and Tom to dine with us at the hotel on Thursday evening, at six. It happens to be my twenty-fifth birthday. We’re having a small celebration. You will come, won’t you Zel?”
Zelda promised they would.
“And, of course, you won’t say a word about any of this to Tom?”
“My dear Leona, of course not. I wouldn’t dream of betraying your confidence.”
But when Leona left, Zelda wished with all her heart that she could talk the situation over with Tom. He was Jackson’s best friend. He could insist that Jackson at least tell Leona the facts about who he was and how he’d come to be in Frank.
Jackson was a rogue. She’d thought so from the first moment she’d laid eyes on him, Zelda concluded. All she could do now was hope that he was an honorab
le rogue.
A Distant Echo: Chapter Twenty-Five
The dining room at the Imperial Hotel was grand, and Zelda tried not to stare around like an unsophisticated bumpkin.
Carpeted in thick red plush, it had an enormous chandelier in the middle of the ceiling. Framed paintings of most of the crowned heads of Europe as well as three very large and, she concluded, badly done studies of the late Queen Victoria hung one next to the other on the gold-papered walls.
The late queen could have used a good photographer.
A pianist---Tom whispered that he was the same little man who played honky-tonk in the saloon each evening---was playing something soft and, she assumed, classical.
Jackson had reserved a large, round table in a quiet corner, and as Tom escorted Zelda across the room, past the other diners, she silently blessed Rosa Petevello’s inspired dressmaking.
In return for several portraits of her family, Rosa had made her a dress. Zelda had argued for a dark, utilitarian serge, but Rosa wouldn’t hear of it. Instead, she’d concocted this lavish gown of emerald-green shot taffeta, its huge sleeves decorated with embroidered braid, the low bodice draped in such a way that it actually looked as though Zelda had an adequate bosom.
It was ridiculously opulent, and Zelda had fallen in love with it on sight. She had thought she’d never have occasion to wear it, but she had been unable to resist taking it home and hanging it in her wardrobe.
Yesterday she’d bought a pair of black patent-leather, high-heeled shoes, on sale of course. Today, she’d devoted herself to getting ready.
The afternoon had been spent cursing and struggling with her freshly washed hair until at last the curly mass rested in a high chignon on top of her head, with only a few rebellious curls escaping down her neck and over her forehead.
Bathed and perfumed and trembling with nerves, she slipped into the dress. But after a fruitless ten minutes of effort, she had to call Virgil up to help with the row of miniscule buttons and tiny hooks that held it closed down the back.
Virgil didn’t have an easy time of it, either. When he finally managed and Zelda turned hesitantly to face him, worried all of a sudden that she might look ridiculous, his blue eyes filled with tears and he couldn’t speak for a long moment. He held her hands in his and looked at her.
“You’re the living image of your mamma, when first I met her,” he said at last, his voice trembling. “She was a beautiful woman, your mamma.”
“Oh, Dad, your eyes are getting bad,” Zelda teased, but her voice too, quavered. “I’m nothing like her. I take more after your spinster sisters. You know that.”
But for the first time in her life, she felt almost pretty as she descended the stairs and went into the small parlor where Tom was waiting, playing a game of checkers with Eli.
The two of them looked up from the board, and their expressions confirmed Virgil’s words; it was plain even before they spoke that they, too, thought her beautiful.
Eli whistled in a rude fashion, and she didn’t even rebuke him.
Her heart caught in her throat when she looked at Tom and saw the admiration in his eyes. “Wow,” he said softly.
He was heart-stoppingly handsome in a dark navy suit and buttoned vest, with a white shirt and soft blue bow tie. The suit had been purchased from Murphy’s Men’s Wear, but it had been tailored, again by Rosa, to fit Tom’s tall, broad-shouldered frame to perfection.
They attracted a good deal of attention now as they walked across the dining room. Zelda was aware of heads turning their way, of women assessing both her dress and her escort, of men giving her the kind of admiring, flirtatious looks she’d once believed would never be directed at her.
Her heart swelled, and she couldn’t keep her foolish lips from smiling.
“Mr. Chapman, I presume? And this must be the lovely Zelda.” Jackson grinned and bowed, debonair and impossibly handsome in his close-fitting black suit.
Beside him was Leona, resplendent in a deep garnet velvet dress. She smiled and called an excited greeting, and Zelda admired her poise. No one would have suspected there was a thing on Leona’s mind except enjoyment of the evening.
A stranger sat beside her, an older man with a large white moustache and a shy half-smile. He got to his feet as they approached, and Jackson introduced him.
“Zelda Ralston, Tom Chapman, this is George Edwards, an old friend of Leona’s.”
Of course, Mr. Edwards was the protective friend Leona had told her about, Zelda recalled. She smiled, and he bowed in a courtly manner. He had very soulful eyes, Zelda decided.
She felt Tom’s hand tighten spasmodically on her arm, and she winced and turned to frown at him.
His face registered profound shock, and he was staring in a discourteous fashion at the old man without even acknowledging the introduction.
“Tom,” she whispered, prodding him with her elbow. “Tom, what is it? What’s the matter?”
He recovered and held out his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Edwards,” he managed, but his voice sounded strained.
They sat, Zelda with Tom on her left and Jackson on her right. She handed Leona the gaily wrapped birthday gift she and Tom had made, a photograph of Frank taken from up on the mountain, mounted in a handmade oak frame that Tom had fashioned. Leona ripped off the wrappings, as excited as a child, and everyone exclaimed over the photograph.
It was one of the best she’d done, Zelda had to admit. She’d taken it on an early-spring morning when the sun had just come up and the mist, rising over the little town, had given it an eerie, fairy-tale aspect, cradled in the valley like a giant’s toy.
A waiter hovered at her elbow, filling her stemmed wineglass, and Zelda stared at it, wrestling with her conscience and her convictions and her allegiance to the Women’s Temperance League.
All three lost, and she raised the delicate glass to her mouth and took a long, delicious sip. Tonight she was a sophisticated woman of the world, and such women, she knew from her reading, enjoyed a glass of wine. She sipped again cautiously, feeling lightheaded and giddy and debonair.
But she soon began having misgivings about Tom. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear he’d been imbibing in spirits all afternoon, because he was certainly acting in a most peculiar fashion.
First he forgot to eat his soup, seemingly lost in a daydream. Then he knocked the entire bowl over on the tablecloth. There was a great fuss as waiters converged and mopped up the mess.
Almost immediately, he poured salad dressing on his potatoes instead of gravy, and the unfortunate waiter had to be summoned again to take the serving away and bring another plate of food.
Zelda began to worry that he was having some sort of seizure.
He kept losing the thread of what was being said, making responses that had nothing whatsoever to do with the conversation.
Perhaps he’d been hit on the head at the mine and hadn’t told her? She caught him innumerable times casting the most peculiar glances at George Edwards, and she couldn’t for the life of her understand why. The older man was the soul of courtesy, very quiet spoken and good-natured, knowledgeable about a variety of topics, interested in everything the younger people had to say, altogether a charming gentleman with impeccable manners.
Zelda was actually losing patience with Tom by the time dessert was served. Jackson had ordered an elaborate cake with Leona’s name on it, accompanied by bowls of rich custard and sliced fruit and a most delicious blackberry dessert wine. Tom didn’t even taste his serving. He sat lost in some sort of daydream.
Zelda, however, enjoyed every morsel, but all the liquids began to make a visit to a bathroom an urgent requirement.
She was relieved when Leona winked at her, and announced, “Zelda and I are going up to my room to freshen up a little. We’ll come down and join you gentlemen for coffee in a short while.”
Zelda sprang to her feet and found herself just a trifle wobbly. She staggered, and Tom leaped up to steady her, knocking a half-filled
glass of dark blackberry wine to the carpet, where it spread in an ugly stain.
Zelda, relieved that the wine hadn’t hit her dress, felt mortified on his behalf. It was fortunate they couldn’t afford this sort of entertainment on any regular basis, she concluded as she hurried off with Leona. He might look as though he’d been born to wear evening clothes, but elegant surroundings and polite conversation were definitely not Tom’s element.
When the swish of the women’s skirts faded and he was seated once again, Tom took a healthy gulp of the excellent brandy Jackson had ordered. He tried to get a firm grip on the feeling of disorientation and utter disbelief he’d been experiencing since the moment he’d met the man who called himself George Edwards.
Recognition has been instantaneous. But so was the shock of actually meeting someone he’d researched and read about in such detail, a notorious man long dead by the time Tom was born, now sitting not two feet away, very much alive.
George Edwards was the pseudonym used by the infamous train robber, Bill Miner, the man once labeled by the head of the Pinkerton Detective Agency “the master criminal of the American West.” Over a period of years, Miner masterminded a number of robberies in both Canada and the United States, successfully escaping with substantial amounts of gold and money each time. He’d also been caught and sentenced to San Quentin twice. He’d managed to escape both times from the notorious prison.
Bill Miner was a legend. He was credited with originating the expression, “Hand up,” and he’d often been described as a gentleman bandit because of his charm. The reason Tom had researched him so thoroughly was because he was the man who planned and executed the robbery of the Klondike gold bars, the lost gold that had brought Tom and Jackson to Frank in the first place.
Now and Forever: Time Travel Romance Superbundle Page 84