The Bridal Veil

by Alexis Harrington

  Luke sat forward, silent, his elbows on his knees, and kept the broad-chested horse team moving along a rutted, muddy road toward his farm. The lines laid easy in his big, work-roughened hands. As soon as they were away from town, he’d unknotted his tie and opened his shirt collar, muttering a comment about “the damned noose” choking him. Now and then, Emily caught a glimpse of his throat and chest when his shirt gapped away from his body.

  On either side of the path, newly green grass and Queen Anne’s lace, heavy with raindrops, mingled with emerging clover. Sometimes they passed a length of fence, where a few black-and-white cows hung their heads between the weathered rails to watch them go by.

  Along the way, an occasional farmhouse dotted the high, green landscape. One was set close to the road, with fresh-plowed fields behind and to the sides. Another nestled back against the edge of tall, dark stands of fir trees, its drive long and straight. As they drove, they climbed, and the river gorge spread out in the vista below. Despite the low, gray sky, Emily thought it was an impressive sight, a bright spot during a day filled with inauspicious events.

  The dry civil ceremony in Judge Archie Clifton’s office had hardly been the sort of wedding that Emily had pictured for herself as a youngster. Even when she and Alyssa had played bride in the attic of their childhood home, her dreams had been better than what happened today. Back then, because of her height, she’d always been forced to wear her stepfather’s wedding suit, while her sister, small and delicate like their mother, had worn the family gown and heirloom veil. Of course, as time passed and Emily’s future became clear, her girlish dreams of a fairytale wedding had all but blown away like the tall-masted sailing ships on Lake Michigan.

  Then hope, a fragile and ephemeral thing to Emily, had roused itself with her desperate decision to come west. She’d been practical enough to understand that Luke Becker would not greet her with a grand show of romance. Still, although she didn’t know what she’d hoped for, it had not been this.

  It had all been so hurried, so undignified. Two men called in from the barber shop next door had served as witnesses. Rose had sat stone-faced in a chair by the stove. The judge, whose shaggy muttonchops made Emily think of a chow dog, had swept through a quick monologue, punctuated by his requests for their promises to honor each other as man and wife. The beautiful wedding dress that she’d brought with her, although it would never fit, lay in the bottom of her trunk with her grandmother’s veil, the one part of the ensemble she’d so hoped to finally wear. But the hasty wedding had prevented her from changing her clothes or even unpacking the beautiful headpiece with its length of white silk.

  Looking more like a crow than a bride in her wrinkled black crepe suit, she had vowed to take Luke Becker, a complete stranger, as her husband. Then Luke had placed on her hand a plain gold band intended for a much smaller finger. Because it didn’t fit hers, it now encircled her left pinky under her glove. She’d known a flutter of panic when his warm hand had touched hers. He could claim her with those big hands if he wanted to, regardless of what he’d said about giving her only a roof, his name, and respect. He would be within his rights to do so if he chose.

  Emily glanced down. Her suit was pretty much a loss to the damp weather, and she was certain that her hat was a ruined wreck. It wasn’t raining hard. It simply didn’t stop, and the rain’s dreary grayness seeped into her heart. In the back of the wagon Rose still sulked, as bedraggled as any street urchin Emily had ever seen in Chicago. Her ruffled dress was ruined, too.

  The wagon hit a deep puddle, throwing Emily against Luke’s shoulder. It was a strong shoulder, hard and unyielding and very male. She pulled away as if it were a firebrand. Emily had lived in a mostly feminized world for many years—with her sister and all the females at Miss Wheaton’s Finishing School—she was unaccustomed to dealing with a man like Luke. All she knew of him was what he’d written in his letters. Three years widowed, he grew cabbage and corn on his farm, had been born in Fairdale, and was the father of eleven-year-old Rose.

  As if their brief contact had jolted him into speech, Luke said, “I hope you understand about the ring. I got it from Fran’s store a few weeks ago, when I thought Alyssa was— Anyway, it didn’t seem like a good idea to go back there today, after everything that happened. I’ll exchange it some day when I go into town.”

  “Of course. That’s fine.” She understood, better than he knew.

  “Do you like ham? Cora has fixed a little wedding supper for us.”

  She looked up at him. He had a fine nose, not too long or too short, a strong jaw, and a broad forehead. “Really? Cora is your housekeeper?”

  “Uh, no, not exactly. Cora Hayward is Rose’s grandmother. She lives with us.”

  “Oh?” This salient point had been left out of Luke’s correspondence. “I don’t believe Alyssa said anything about it.”

  “Yeah, well, I guess I might have forgotten to mention it to her. You’ll meet Cora in a few minutes.” He flapped the lines in his hands and kept his gaze fixed on the path ahead as they crossed a narrow, rickety corduroy bridge. The small logs, laid crosswise, rattled her teeth and made speech nearly impossible.

  None of the scenarios Emily had envisioned included having to please a live-in mother-in-law. “Does your father-in-law live with you too?”

  “No, he died before Rose was born. Cora came to stay with Rose and me after we lost Belinda.” His sigh was almost imperceptible. “Three years ago, now.”

  They rounded a curve and another farmhouse came into view. “That’s our farm. That’s the homestead.” She heard the unmistakable pride in Luke’s voice as he turned the team into the road that led to the house.

  A tidy, two-story place, it was painted sage-green with cream trim. Its wide, covered porch stretched across the front and around the side. A barn and with an attached henhouse stood off to the left, and at the rear edge of the cleared land, another dense forest of fir trees loomed. Those on the outer edges seemed to have thinner branches on their eastern sides, as if they’d been beaten by fierce winds over many years. Their cold, dark silhouettes made Emily shiver. A stately old oak grew in the front yard, and a swing hung from it. No other shrubbery or flowers decorated the yard.

  Waiting on the porch was a large, stocky woman with a stern face and faded red hair that was parted down the center and pulled into a tight knot at the base of her neck. She stood with her arms crossed over her ample chest, gripping a cooking spoon in one hand. Her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, as if she’d been working hard since sunup ten years ago.

  Luke set the wagon brake and jumped down from the high seat, then came around to help Emily to the ground. Rose scrambled over the wheel and ran toward the house.

  “Grammy, Grammy, guess what?” she bugled. Her tangled coffee-colored hair flew behind her, and she managed to find every puddle in her path, splashing more mud on her shoes and stockings. “This is—”

  “Rose, that’s not your business to share,” Luke called after his daughter. “We’re going to have a talk, missy. You get into the house and wash up for supper, then wait for me in the kitchen.” Apparently deciding she’d pushed him far enough today, the girl obeyed and disappeared inside. He escorted Emily to the porch, where the scent of cooking eddied with the wind currents. Then to the waiting woman, he said, “Cora, this is Emily Cannon—well, Emily Becker, now.”

  Up close, Emily realized that Cora was a bit shorter than she’d first seemed. But she was sturdy and big-boned, with large, work-reddened hands. She bore the faint scent of lye soap, starch, and wood smoke. Her small blue eyes, as hard and round as two marbles, missed nothing.

  Cora raked her with the same rude up-and-down gaze that Franny Eakins had. “I thought you said her name was Alyssa,” she said, her tone accusing. “I thought you said she was small-built and dark-haired.” She spoke to Luke as if Emily were not there.

  Emily refused to be discussed like a piece of furniture brought home from a merchant’s shop. Not certain ho
w Luke would explain her presence, she interjected, “Alyssa was my sister, Mrs. Hayward. I’m very pleased to meet you.” Briefly, she described coming in her sister’s place, leaving out the more painful details of the day.

  Cora’s hard gaze fixed on her but her stern face softened just a bit, and she uncrossed her arms. “I don’t much like surprises. I want to know what’s coming and I had my mind all arranged to meet someone else. But I’m sorry to hear about your loss. I’ve buried kin—I know what that’s like.”

  Another memory of Chicago flashed through Emily’s mind, this time of Rosehill Cemetery. Of the winter’s last snowfall settling lightly on Alyssa’s headstone, plain and small and new. It had been just before Emily left, when she’d gone there to say goodbye. She swallowed and nodded at Cora, unable to speak.

  Luke left the porch to pull Emily’s trunk from the wagon. “Emily was an etiquette teacher in Chicago. It’ll be good for Rose.”

  “Etiquette!” Cora hooted. Her voice sounded like a rusty nail being pulled from a weathered plank. “Well, that’s about as useless as teats on a boar. I’ve taught that girl all she needs—” A look from Luke stopped her. Carrying the trunk on his big shoulder, he took it inside and Emily followed it with her gaze, a feeling of panic elbowing the composure she was trying to maintain. That trunk was the only familiar thing she had in this strange new place.

  “Manners and gentle behavior are important for every young person, Mrs. Hayward.”

  The older woman waved a dismissive chapped hand. “Bah! ‘Please’ and ‘thank you’ are good enough!”

  Only manners, gentle behavior and years of enforced self-control kept Emily from replying that stealing and a sassy mouth could not be prevented or cured with the mere use of please and thank you. No matter how she might want to, a lady did not give voice to every thought that came into her head. Apparently Cora Hayward had not learned this rule, or passed it on to Rose.

  Luke reappeared, and just briefly their gazes touched. Once again, Emily was struck by what she saw in the depths of his eyes. It was more than just weariness. She saw a raw flicker. Too shy to maintain their eye contact, she broke away first.

  “I’ll leave you to get settled, then, while I see to the stock,” he said and strode to the wagon.

  “Don’t be long,” Cora said, “I’ve had that ham ready to carve for the better part of two hours.” She shook her head as she watched him lead the team toward the barn. “That man. Well, come on Mrs. Becker, I’ll show you to your room.”

  She yanked open the screen door and whisked Emily through a neat parlor. Emily had little time to look around. Cora continued down a short hall that led to a flight of stairs, forcing her to follow. On the second floor she noted several rooms.

  “Heavens, what a big house.” After years of rented rooms, where Emily and Alyssa had shared a bed until her stepfather died, this farmhouse seemed enormous.

  “Luke built this place himself for my daughter Belinda, plank by plank. I never would have thought that shiftless man had it in him to build anything. Some Swedish family lived here before, but the house burned down and they decided to leave. He got the land cheap. I wondered why he made it so big—I guess he thought there would be lots of children after Rose. But there weren’t. This is Rose’s.” They passed a bedroom that looked as if a tornado had struck it. Clothes were strewn everywhere and hung from the open drawers of a bureau. “Luke’s room is in there.” Cora nodded toward a closed door on the right and passed it. “Yours is this way.”

  Emily didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved that she would not share her husband’s bed. If Alyssa had come, would she have been led past Luke’s room, as well? In any case, Cora had obviously arrived at her own decision already.

  At the end of the hall, Emily glimpsed her trunk standing in a clean, bright bedroom. It was far more cheerful than her room in Chicago, where her view had been of the brick wall across the alley. This one had two big windows graced by white lace curtains and shades, that looked out on the plowed fields. Between the windows was a plain wardrobe. A pretty quilt and bolsters gave the big bed a cozy look. A washstand and a simple dressing table with a small mirror and upholstered bench completed the furniture. Emily sensed a woman’s touch here, and something told her it wasn’t Cora’s.

  “All right?” Cora demanded like a grumpy innkeeper.

  “It’s very nice. Thank you.” Emily said.

  “My daughter decorated this room. She upholstered the bench herself, made the quilt, and braided the rug.” Emily waited for the warning not to touch anything. It didn’t come but it was implied. Cora added, “Soon as you’re ready, we’ll be setting down to supper.”

  “Yes, I’ll be right down.”

  “I usually serve meals at seven, eleven and five. Those who aren’t setting at the table on time don’t eat. I’m not running a restaurant here.”

  “I appreciate knowing the schedule,” Emily lied.

  Cora held her gaze for a moment, then nodded and closed the door with another hmph.

  Emily allowed herself a quiet sigh and looked around at the cream-colored walls. As she perched tentatively on the edge of the bed, a feeling of ineffable loneliness settled upon her like a familiar old shawl. She supposed that her decision to become a mail-order bride was no worse than taking a position as a governess or a lady’s companion. The chief difference was that she was legally bound to the situation and the man who’d brought her to this house. Legally bound, and morally, too, since she had given her word to God, to Luke, to Judge Clifton, and to the State of Oregon. She was Luke Becker’s wife now and the people in this house should be her family.

  Except they weren’t. They were just strangers. And she wasn’t Alyssa, so they were not very pleased to see her.

  She pulled off her gloves, and with the left one came her wedding band, too small for her ring finger, too big for her pinkie. She fished out the ring and put it back on. It was loose but if she had asked Luke to compromise, she would have to as well. Compromise was another of Emily’s familiar companions.

  This marriage of convenience . . . her mother’s marriage to Robert Cannon had been a loveless marriage of convenience. Emily hadn’t realized that early on, but it came to her after her mother was gone. She knew she was a fool to think that her marriage to Luke Becker would be any different. But she couldn’t help but wish for more.

  Rising from the mattress, she went to the trunk, unbuckled the cracked leather straps that encircled it, and opened the hasp with the key pinned to the underside of her jacket lapel. When she lifted the lid, the faint, lingering scents of her life in Chicago drifted over her, making her throat tight with longing for what had been. Amid her belongings, Alyssa’s fragrance of rosewater mingled with their mother’s lavender sachet, and a hard knot formed in Emily’s chest. They were all gone now, her mother first, then her stepfather, and now Alyssa.

  Reaching inside, she carefully lifted out the gown and veil she’d brought with her. Wrapped in layers of tissue, the small gown was simply one of her few treasured keepsakes. The bridal veil, though . . . oh, the beautiful bridal veil. She held the elegant headpiece as if it were a priceless relic. Between the seed pearls that decorated it, silk orange blossoms had been attached with the finest of stitches. Two yards of lace-edged illusion, a fine, transparent tulle made of silk, fell from the back of the headpiece in an airy cloud. Although it would not have formed a long, elegant train on Emily, as it would have on Alyssa or their mother, Letty, it would have dipped below the hem of her dress. From the trunk’s top tray, she picked up a daguerreotype and looked at the woman staring back at her. Tall and statuesque, Emmaline Maryfield, the maternal grandmother for whom Emily was named, wore the veil in the portrait and it brushed the back hem of her gown. Grandma Emmaline had been a seamstress for wealthy society matrons. One of them had ordered a wedding gown and veil for her daughter. When the girl eloped, the mother was so devastated, she had paid for the ensemble and then given it to Emmaline as a gift
. The gown she had sold to another customer. But she had worn the veil at her own wedding. In due time, she had presented it to Letty when she married. It had always been understood that Letty’s girls would wear the heirloom when they became brides.

  Emily sighed again. Her stepfather had often noted that Emily was as plain as gruel but, bless her heart and God be thanked, at least she was a well-behaved, plain young lady. She had clung to that, even when she had a wicked or rebellious thought, even when she’d felt like a prisoner of the very rules she clutched so closely.

  That might be why the veil was so important. The veil . . . to her, it meant so much more than a wedding or a husband. It represented delicate, ethereal beauty, and from childhood, she’d always imagined that if she put it on, its beauty would be magically conferred upon her. For the briefest time during her trip west, she had envisioned wearing it at last. But it was not to be, and Emily had been wrong to think it would. Regardless of her grandmother’s wishes, the veil was intended for Alyssa, the beautiful one, and always had been.

  Alyssa would have worn the veil, if Charles Walker had not called off their engagement and left her so disillusioned and heartbroken that she’d found the prospect of becoming a mail-order bride appealing.

  How cruel were the twists of their fates, Emily thought.

  So Alyssa had died with her youth and beauty intact, but her spirit crushed.

  And Emily would never have beauty, but she would always have her gentility.

  With great care, she enfolded the garments in their tissue cocoon and replaced them in the trunk. Then she brought out a black dress to wear to dinner.

  Mrs. Luke Becker. She was a wife now, but she’d never been a bride.

  ~~*~*~*~~

  Luke stood in the cool, dark barn, forking hay into the stalls. He’d taken off his good frock coat and hung it on a nail hammered into one of the posts. It was peaceful in here, with the smells of animals and feed and time. The building was old, having survived untouched by the fire that destroyed the original farmhouse and made Lars Olstrom, the previous owner, desperate to pack up his family and return to Sweden. After a run of bad luck, the Olstroms decided that America wasn’t the grand place they’d been told, and Luke was able to pick up the land for a fraction of its worth. He’d built the new house closer to the road because he’d thought the oak tree would look nice next to it.