The Bridal Veil

by Alexis Harrington

  Emily sat upright, appalled at the direction her thoughts had taken. She had struggled with unseemly thoughts all her life, ones that no real lady should ever entertain—jealousy, critical views, fear, anger, impurity, curiosity. They all were injurious to the spirit, and to one’s moral and physical welfare. Certainly the copious advice manuals published on proper behavior warned against these thoughts and feelings. Her ability to remember these rules and pass them along to her students had been one reason for her success as a teacher.

  But sometimes, oh, God, sometimes in her secret heart, the strictures of ladylike deportment felt a bit too tight, even to her. Though she’d rather die than admit it, she’d wondered what it might feel like to walk barefoot through grass, or lounge in bed for a morning, something a person didn’t do unless she was ill, or—or, just once, how would it feel to sleep naked on a hot summer night, with nothing between her skin and the sheets? But she recoiled from the questions because aside from the impropriety of the deeds she pondered, they tore at the very fabric of security around which she had built and conducted her life.

  Unbuttoning the bodice of her dress, she stood and stepped out of the dirty garment. Then she pulled the pins out of her hair so that she could brush it out and rebraid it. The soft whisk of the long strands against her waist was another sensual indulgence that Emily allowed herself to enjoy. A woman’s hair, her crowning glory it was sometimes called, was to be worn up in a modest style, not hanging loose in an immodest fall of curls and waves.

  But right now, she decided that this particular indulgence was one she deserved. She stood in her chemise and petticoat, pulling the bristles of her brush through her hair again and again, enjoying the feel of freed locks. If she missed Cora Hayward’s breakfast, so be it. She knew they hadn’t waited for her.

  ~~*~*~*~~

  The rock lodged in the disk harrow finally broke free with a hard, impatient stroke of Luke’s hammer. With a heartfelt curse, he picked it up and flung it into the blackberry brambles that edged one side of the property. God, he’d lost an hour of the morning to this. At least he could finally start the plowing after breakfast. He glanced toward the sky, hoping to see a break in the clouds.

  What he saw instead was Emily Cannon Becker, dressed in her chemise as she passed her bedroom windows on the second floor, her hair tumbling down her back as she drew a brush through it. He caught only a glimpse, but he saw enough to recognize that its color was of ripe wheat. Luke, stunned and suddenly breathless, thought he hadn’t seen anything as beautiful since a misty sunrise last fall.

  And maybe it had been long before that.

  ~~*~*~*~~

  Just after noon, ravening hunger finally forced Emily out of her room. She knew she was too late for lunch, but that didn’t mean there was no food in the house. Wearing her last clean black dress and with her hair tidied, she was determined to face the formidable Cora Hayward. Emily had never been a coward in her life, she thought, as she came down the steps. Well, yes, she had. Many times. But she had proceeded anyway and she would do so now.

  In the kitchen, Cora stood at the stove like an eternal sentinel at her post, stirring a black kettle of something with a pleasing aroma. Rose was back at the table, drawing a picture in a composition book. With a slender hold on the courage she’d managed to muster, Emily went to the sideboard and got a dish and silver for herself. Cora turned to watch her, and she felt the woman’s eyes on her every move. The silver clacked against the dish in her trembling hand, and she tightened her grip.

  When she walked to the stove with her empty plate, she thought of Dickens’s Oliver Twist, begging for porridge. “Mrs. Hayward, I’d like to make lunch for myself. As I said earlier, I am not a guest here and I’ll be happy to help myself. If you’ll just show me where I might find something to eat, I’ll take care of the rest.” She forced herself to smile as she spoke.

  Cora stared at her. Finally she said, “I’ve got this kettle of stew we had for the noon meal. I was just about to put up a jar for Luke. You take some too.” The offer was grudging but Emily thought she detected the tiniest hint of chagrin. Cora took the dish from Emily’s hand and ladled on a healthy portion of the rich, meaty broth studded with potatoes, carrots, and onions.

  “Thank you.” Emily sat down at the table and forced herself to keep from slurping the delicious stew like a boor, but it wasn’t easy. She hadn’t eaten a substantial meal since the day before.

  Cora went to the back door and took up a shawl hanging from a hook there. “I’m going out to the henhouse to see if there are any eggs left. If you want more stew, help yourself.” It sounded more like a command than an invitation, and Emily drew a deep breath when the door slammed behind Cora.

  At the other end of the table Rose sat, studiously intent on the picture she was drawing. Her tongue peeked from the corner of her mouth and she gripped her pencil so tightly her knuckles were white. This was the first time since Emily arrived that she’d been alone with the girl, and after the incident with the hair ribbon, she wasn’t sure how to commence. Finally she decided on what seemed like a safe topic.

  “What are you drawing, Rose?” she asked after savoring the last spoonful of broth.

  She didn’t look up. “Nothing much.”

  “Hmm, it looks like something. May I see?”

  “I guess.” Briefly, she held up the composition book to show Emily a drawing that revealed a fair amount of talent. Expecting a rather immature rendering, Emily instead saw a reasonably accurate depiction of the farmhouse, complete with the oak tree and the swing that hung from its bough. The perspective and proportions were a little off, but not enough to detract from the budding gift she recognized.

  Pleased surprise colored her voice. “That’s very nice! How long have you been sketching?”

  The girl shrugged in that annoying way of hers. Her mumbled response matched the shrug. “I don’t know. A long time, I suppose. Maybe even two years. Grammy says it’s a waste of time.”

  She would, Emily simmered. “Painting and drawing are very ladylike pastimes for a girl. So is stitchery. Has your grandmother showed you how to embroider and sew?”

  A lock of Rose’s unbound hair fell over the paper and she pushed it behind her ear. “Nope. I just like to draw.”

  Emily slid her chair a little closer. “Well, embroidery is kind of like drawing, except with a needle and thread. You can make pictures of all kinds of things—flowers, birds, trees, even this house. In the Middle Ages, European women stitched big tapestries that told stories of great battles and family histories. There’s a famous one in France called the Bayeux Tapestry. It shows the Norman conquest of England, and it’s two hundred and forty feet long, just over one-fifth of a mile. It’s about a mile into town isn’t it?”

  Rose nodded with wide eyes, obviously impressed.

  “Well, the tapestry could line the fences along the road for one-fifth of the way into town. All done with stitchery.” She pointed at Rose’s artwork. “Of course, you wouldn’t have to make anything so big. But it might be easier for you because you draw so well. You could sketch your design on the fabric.”

  The girl’s wide eyes now gleamed. “Really?”

  Emily smiled. “Yes. If you’d like to learn, I can show you how to get started.”

  “Oh, yes, that sounds—”

  Just then, the back door opened and Cora bustled in, a stack of stove wood on her beefy arm. “Not an egg left in that whole blamed henhouse.” She cast them both a quizzical look, then bent a censuring frown on her granddaughter. The girl fell silent.

  “Would you like that, Rose?” Emily pressed, looking at her downturned head. “I have all of my threads and such upstairs in my trunk, and we can begin a sampler for you.”

  “Um, no, maybe not,” she mumbled again, and from her answer Emily learned more than she’d expected to.

  Cora plucked an empty fruit jar from a shelf and went to the kettle on the stove. She spooned stew into it and screwed on a lid, then put it
in a basket with a half loaf of bread. She covered the whole thing with a clean napkin.

  “Rose, you take your father’s lunch out to him.” Emily eyed Cora, who turned back to the stove. “He’ll be in the fields until dinnertime today since he got a late start.” Cora put the basket on the table. “Go on now, while it’s still hot. And wait until he’s finished eating so you can bring back the basket.”

  Rose chanced a peek at Emily, and she smiled back at the girl. “I’ll tell you what, Rose, I’ll come with you. I need to talk to your father, anyway.”

  The older woman spun to look at them both, her usually-florid face even brighter. “Mrs. Becker, it’s downright muddy out there with all the rain we’ve been having. You’re likely to ruin your shoes. The mud will suck them right off your feet.”

  Emily stood and said, “I have a pair of overshoes upstairs that I’ll put on. I’ll be fine.”

  Cora tried again. “Rose can’t wait for you. Luke’s lunch will get cold.”

  “No, it won’t. I’ll just be a minute.” Emily turned and dashed up the stairs in a most unladylike manner, worried that if she took too long, Cora would send Rose off at a gallop to get the child away from her. She was fully aware that Cora wanted to keep her separated from Rose, but she wasn’t sure why.

  Throwing open her trunk, she tossed things out right and left until she found a pair of fleece-lined arctics that she’d worn through the snows of Chicago. She yanked them on over her shoes, grabbed her shawl, and bounded back downstairs just in time to see Rose going out the door, the basket in hand.

  “Here I am,” she called. Rose cast a last, uncertain look at her grandmother, whose jaw appeared to be so tight, Emily expected to hear her teeth crack. “It’ll be good to go for a walk.”

  The two set off down the path to the fields. The sun had braved its way through the overcast and the afternoon was warming up. Emily pushed her shawl from her shoulders.

  Rose slogged alongside her, relapsed into her silence. Determined to draw her out, Emily asked, “Do you bring your father his lunch very often?”

  “Only when he’s real busy during planting and at harvest time.”

  Cora had overstated the mud. It was good to be outside and away from the oppression of that house. “It was nice of your grandmother to fix him this basket,” Emily exaggerated. “She takes good care of you both.” She knew she was leading the girl and felt a twinge of guilt. But since no one had volunteered any information about the family, this seemed to be the only way to learn about them.

  “Sort of. But Grammy doesn’t like Daddy much.”

  Emily had already gotten that impression. “Really? Why not?”

  “She says Daddy was a hell—hellion when he was younger. I don’t know what that is exactly, but it sounds bad. Him and his friends were always in trouble for something. Grammy says Daddy was from the wrong side of the tracks, but I don’t know what she’s talking about. The train doesn’t even come to Fairdale. Besides, he told me he grew up by the river. Grammy says she didn’t want him to marry Mama because she had a nice man courting her, but Daddy chased him away.”

  Emily lifted her brows. She countered, “Well, your father seems like a nice man, too.”

  “Yeah, I guess. He used to be more fun. He’s a lot different now since Mama died. For a long time afterwards he didn’t talk much, and sometimes he’d sit at the kitchen table at night for hours and drink whiskey. Grammy would get mad at him about it, so he’d go upstairs to his bedroom and slam the door. Or he’d go out to the barn.”

  Suddenly, Emily felt that she was learning more than she should know. “Does he still do those things?”

  “Once in a while.” Rose shrugged and repeated, “He’s not the same anymore. He used to make jokes and laugh more.”

  Emily heard a thread of wistfulness in Rose’s usual sullenness. What kind of life was that for a girl or for Luke himself, she wondered, and what could she do to change it? A wife’s job, she knew, was to create a comfortable, peaceful home where her husband could shed the cares of his day. She was expected to rein in a man’s coarser character, and to rear children who were well-behaved, quiet, and respectful. She had taught these values to scores of young women to prepare them to lead proper lives and keep proper homes. But she had no real practical experience. Although this was not a typical marriage, surely if she bore Luke Becker’s name she would do more than act as a governess to Rose. How she’d go about it, though, with Cora holding court in the kitchen, she wasn’t sure. No advice manual talked about her circumstances.

  Up ahead, Luke and the plow team came into view. The April sun was gentle but his work was hot and hard. He’d rolled up his sleeves above his elbows, and she watched, fascinated, as the muscles in his arms flexed and stretched when he pulled on the reins.

  Seeing them approach, Luke halted the team. After he fished out a dark blue handkerchief to swab his damp face and neck, he reached for the canteen slung by a strap over his shoulder. Pulling out the stopper, he tipped back his head and drank, his throat working with each swallow. For a moment, he seemed almost as big as the tall, broad-chested horses in front of him, and just as powerful. His sweat-stained shirt clung to his torso and was unbuttoned halfway down his chest. He lowered the canteen and their eyes met for a single, riveting moment. Emily slowed her pace and dropped her gaze, startled by her own visceral response.

  This was not the frock-coated man who had met her at the dock yesterday, or the one who had written the spare but polite letters to Alyssa. It wasn’t even the man who had rescued her from the henhouse. This man was earthy and very male, and looked like the type who would drink to intoxication at the kitchen table.

  This was worse than she’d originally believed. Luke Becker would challenge her every day, forcing her to fight those unseemly thoughts and frightening feelings with which she struggled.

  Risking another look at him in the sun, his dark, curly hair ruffled by the spring breeze, Emily drew a breath and stepped closer, determined to keep that dark corner of her heart under lock and key.

  After all, a lady could do no less and still remain a lady.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “We didn’t finish our conversation about Rose, Mr. Becker.”

  Luke sat on the seat of the disc harrow and gazed at Emily while he spooned Cora’s stew into his mouth. He was surprised to see Emily out here in the fields, especially after her run-in with Cora’s hens. After mulling it over, he’d known there was no getting around having a word with his mother-in-law after breakfast about the rotten trick she’d played on Emily. But as always, she’d turned huffy and defensive. Nothing, it seemed, was ever her fault.

  She only meant to be helpful . . .

  No one could take a joke . . .

  It was only her opinion . . .

  Everyone was so blamed sensitive . . .

  Cora always had an answer, but none of them ever included an apology.

  If he was surprised that Emily had come out here, he was even more surprised to see her with Rose. But it pleased him. Obviously, she’d already begun to take his daughter in hand and get her straightened around. The sensation of a weight being lifted from his shoulders was almost physical.

  She stood beside him in the mud, with some funny winter boots peeking out from the hem of her black dress and her shawl dangling on the crooks of her arms. Damn, she had green eyes, he noticed again, probably the greenest he had ever seen. But every time she turned them on him, he felt as if his shirt was on backwards or his fly was unbuttoned.

  “No, ma’am, but I was hoping you’d know what to do about Rose. That’s why I married—that’s what we talked about yesterday.”

  Emily got a pinched look, the same one he’d seen earlier today. “It isn’t that I don’t know what to do, Mr. Becker. I just want to find out if you have anything specific in mind for Rose’s development.”

  Gripping the jar of stew between his knees, he tore off a hunk of bread from the loaf in the basket. “It’s pretty simpl
e. I want her to stop stealing, to have manners that wouldn’t shame her mother, and to be happy. And I want to be able to stop worrying about those things because I’ve got this farm to run.”

  Out of earshot, Rose walked along the creek that edged the path, searching for ducks and ducklings. Looking at her, Luke thought his heart would break. God, she was so much like Belinda, not just in her face, but in her movements and gestures too. Except for her ragamuffin appearance, it was as if he were seeing Belinda as a child. It only made him miss his wife more. “Just don’t break her spirit,” he added, almost to himself.

  Emily lifted her nose. “Mr. Becker, I wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing! I know that accepted teaching methods often include harsh tactics and even humiliation, but I do not subscribe to those ideas. You can’t reach a child’s mind through punishment and fear. Believe me, I know.”

  His gaze shifted back to Emily, his curiosity roused. Was she speaking from a teacher’s experience or her own? Kids could be cruel, he knew. So could adults, for that matter. Maybe in her past she’d been on the receiving end of teasing about her height. A girl like her would never blend in, no matter how hard she tried.

  Nodding, he pulled off another hunk of bread. “Rose hasn’t been the same since her mother d—” He still couldn’t bring himself to say it aloud. “Since she lost her mother. When she’s not in school she’s usually with Cora or keeps to herself, and half the time I don’t know what she’s thinking.” He threw the spoon into the basket. “Hell, I guess I hardly ever know what she’s thinking. I don’t know what makes her do things like she did yesterday.”