Emily’s face relaxed into a small, wry smile that made her plainness almost pretty. “Young girls’s hearts are often mysteries to their fathers.”
Screwing the lid back on the jar, he asked, “Did your father understand you?”
She glanced down at the toes of her boots, and a shadow seemed to cross her smooth brow. “My own father died when I was six. My stepfather and I weren’t very close.”
He gazed at Rose again, scampering along the creek bank, showing more enthusiasm than she’d let him see in quite a while. “I don’t want that to happen to me and my girl.”
Emily looked up again and considered him for a moment, as if assessing his worth as a man. He resisted the urge to shift on the seat of the harrow. “I’ll try to see that it doesn’t, Mr. Becker.”
He met her eyes, then handed her the empty lunch basket. “Ma’am, would you mind taking this with you? I’d better get back to this field or it won’t be finished.”
“Surely.” Turning, she called, “Rose, are you coming back with me?”
Rose looked up from the creek bank and shook her head.
“Then I’ll see you at the house.”
Luke watched as she turned to walk back to the house. She was fussy in her ways, and everything about her would discourage a man from doing more than tipping his hat. For his own part, Luke had always preferred women with more curve than angle. Emily was nothing but angles. She was graceful, though, he had to admit that, even if she was as tall and thin as a willow sapling. Maybe because of it.
But he hadn’t married her for himself. He’d married her for Rose.
~~*~*~*~~
That night after dinner, Emily sat in the parlor with a slim volume of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Sonnets From the Portugese open on her lap. Rose and Cora had gone to bed and the house was quiet. The divan under her bore cushions with crocheted covers, and a pretty braided rug graced the hardwood floor. The glow of the lamp, with its lovely rose-painted shade, gave the room a warm hominess. It was peaceful here, with both Cora’s voice and her kitchen noises silenced. Only the soft tick of the mantel clock broke through the night sounds of the wind rustling the boughs of the big oak just beyond the window.
Yet Emily felt as if she were not alone. A presence loomed here, just as it did in her own room and in other parts of the house. The presence was Belinda Becker. Not that Emily had seen her or even believed in ghosts. But the dead woman’s spirit was kept alive and well by her family.
Cora took advantage of every opportunity to point out something around the house that Belinda had made, or owned, or collected. Having just lost Alyssa, Emily thought she understood Cora’s need to hang on to Belinda’s memory. Yet she spoke almost as if Luke’s first wife were not dead, but merely away. In fact, Emily had hesitated before coming into the parlor, worried that she might be trespassing on a sacrosanct memory by even using the room.
But this was her home now, as well, and she would not be confined to her bedroom and the kitchen. Luke had promised her respect and a roof over her head—certainly the home should consist of more than just those two rooms. And as for the respect . . .
Her gaze dropped to the text on the page in her lap.
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
Emily traced over the words with her fingertip and sighed. Elizabeth Barrett had written these intensely personal sonnets for Robert Browning before eloping with him to Italy. Their courtship, which began with his correspondence to her when she was thirty-two, had lasted eight years. She had been frail and forty when she found a love so great that it deserved a book of poetry.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach . . .
What must it feel like, Emily wondered, to love so deeply and to be loved in return? This was not the kind of question that she often allowed herself to ponder. It wasn’t one of her unseemly thoughts—the ability to love and give it in return ennobled humankind. But when her mind ran down this path she usually became dispirited and her heart actually seemed to ache in her chest.
Things were difficult enough right now, she decided, without the added burden of melancholy. Closing the book with a clap, she glanced at the clock. It was nearly ten. She’d been waiting here for Luke to come in from the barn for more than an hour. He’d gone out there right after dinner, and she remembered what Rose had told her about him skulking around out there. She had another question to ask him, one that she didn’t want to put off. But following him to the barn, especially if he was in his cups, didn’t seem like a good idea. Better that she should wait here. He had to come in eventually.
Just as the mantel clock began to toll the hour, she heard the kitchen door open. That was followed by the sound of footsteps that had become familiar to her already. Tucking the book in the crook of her arm, she went to meet Luke.
He was reaching to turn down the kitchen lamp when she walked in. “Mr. Becker—”
He jumped and whirled to face her. “Goddamn it to hell, don’t sneak up on a man that way!” he snapped.
Her brows rose and her mouth tightened. “I didn’t think I had.” He looked, well, unbuttoned was the word that came to Emily’s mind. His shirt tails weren’t flapping but they were working their way loose. One strap of his suspenders was falling off his shoulder and stubble shadowed his jaw. He closed the back door, giving her a whiff of spring night breeze. “And there is no need to use such vulgar language.”
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I just didn’t expect to see you up this late.”
“I was waiting for you to come back inside. I want to know about church tomorrow.”
“Church?” He went to the sideboard and reached behind it, producing a dark-brown bottle from what appeared to be a hiding place.
“Yes, tomorrow is Sunday. What time shall I be ready?”
He took a glass from the shelf and flopped into a chair at the table. “We don’t go to church. Well, Cora, goes in sometimes, but I don’t.”
“Really . . . I think it’s important for Rose. Aside from the character-strengthening benefits, it’s a good way for her to become part of the community, to be accepted, and to gain a sense of belonging.” She watched as he pulled the cork from the bottle and poured a half-inch of whiskey into the glass.
Luke had been in church just twice in his life, the day he married Belinda, and the day he buried her. There was nothing for him to be found there. To his way of thinking, a lot of the people—like Cora—who sat in those pews on Sunday, pretending to be good souls, were anything but the other six days of the week.
“If you want to take Rose, that’s fine. But don’t count on me going with you. Those hymn-singing old biddies don’t want me there, either.” He swallowed half the whiskey, feeling its kindly heat burn its way down his throat to his stomach. Some days, like today, when the bickering and complaining around here got to be too much, when the memories were too sharply focused, a drink or two was all that let him find sleep at night. It gave Cora something else to crab at him about, and now he felt Emily’s disapproval radiating from her in icy waves. He didn’t care.
“There’s a pot of coffee still warm on the stove.” She plucked a cup off the sideboard and filled it from the blue enamel pot. Putting it in front of him, she pulled out the chair opposite him and sat tentatively with her hands folded in her lap. The lamplight made her skin glow like fresh cream and gave her soft mouth the tint of crushed strawberries. Had anyone ever kissed that mouth? he wondered suddenly as he stared at it. Had a man ever broken through all that starch and etiquette to plant a big, moist kiss on the proper Miss Emily Cannon? He doubted it. And if he did, what would it feel like?
“Wouldn’t you rather have coffee, Mr. Becker?” Her question interrupted his reverie. Jesus, what was he thinking of? She wasn’t the kind of woman he wanted. Just daydreaming about kissing another woman seemed disloyal to Belinda’s memory.
“No, ma’am, I would not. I’d rather have the whiskey.” He saluted her with t
he glass and drained it. He poured another half-inch into the glass.
“I understand that you imbibe from time to time.”
“Yes, I do, and I don’t apologize for it. No offense intended, ma’am, but you’re here to help Rose, not to reform me.” A humorless chuckle rolled up from his chest. “I suppose Cora told you all about it.” He took another drink.
Emily considered first the glass and then him. The instant of silence that fell between them seemed as wide as the river. “No, actually. Rose told me.” She pushed back her chair and rose from the table. “Goodnight, Mr. Becker.”
Luke sat stunned in the low lamplight, listening to her quiet footfalls as they traveled to the hallway and carried her upstairs.
~~*~*~*~~
The following morning, Emily took one last hurried glance at herself in the small mirror in her room. Her hair was in place and her dress wasn’t so wrinkled that it would be noticed. Thank heavens it had stopped raining, or they would be soaked by the time they got to town. Securing her hat with its pin, she deemed herself ready.
Earlier, she had roused the none-too-pleased Rose and told her to dress for church. Whether the girl had actually followed her instructions remained to be seen. Cora had grumped in the hallway at the news, but she hadn’t had the nerve to muster a full-fledged complaint. After all, how could she object to Emily wanting to attend Sunday services? She had stomped back to her room to dress, muttering something under her breath about Mrs. Becker’s blame-fool notions.
Taking her Bible from her bureau drawer, Emily grabbed her shawl and gloves, then went into the hall and stopped at Rose’s doorway. She found the girl slumping on her bed in another horror of a flounced dress, wearing just one sock and no shoes. Her hair was an uncombed tangle.
“Come along now, Rose,” she urged from the door. “We’re walking to town and we’ve got to leave now to make it on time.”
“Why do we have to go to church?” Rose demanded. “We never did before. I go to school—isn’t that enough?”
Emily bustled in and snatched up a hairbrush from its resting place on the floor. “School feeds your mind. Church feeds your soul.”
“I don’t want my soul to eat. Is Grammy coming too?” Rose pushed her bare foot into the other sock, but made no move to put on her shoes.
Emily took some passing swipes at Rose’s long, shiny hair with the brush. “Yes.”
The girl pulled away from her ministrations. “I’ll bet Daddy doesn’t have to go! And if he’s not going I don’t have to.”
“He’s too busy with his chores, but he told me he wants you to go.” She couldn’t very well relate last night’s conversation, so she hoped God would forgive her for the white lie she told. “Rose, for heaven’s sake, put on your shoes. Where is your button hook?”
With great, gusty sighs and a lot of eye-rolling, Rose managed to find her button hook under the bed, finish dressing, and comb her hair. Emily kept her annoyance in check with a tight rein. It wouldn’t do to snap at the girl again. In the hallway, she gave Rose a once-over. “You’ve forgotten your gloves.”
Rose gave her a look as if she’d asked her to bring along a milk cow. “Gloves! I don’t have gloves. Just mittens for when it snows.”
Now Emily sighed. No gloves—she couldn’t imagine going out without them. It simply wasn’t done, just as one didn’t walk barefoot through grass, or sleep naked in the summer. Or any other time, for that matter. “Well, there’s no time to worry about that now. We’ll have to get you some later.”
They went downstairs, Emily first, and Rose bringing up the rear with foot-dragging reluctance. In the kitchen, Cora put out a plate of cold biscuits.
“Don’t we get breakfast?” Rose moaned.
Cora shot a look at Emily, then nodded at the plate. “Grab a biscuit. We’ll have an early supper when we get back. For now, these will have to do.” Her violet broadcloth dress was plainly one saved for church and special occasions—it looked as if she’d brought it out of storage. It bore the same suffocating ruffles with which she’d dressed Rose, and the purple shade clashed violently with her faded red hair.
Emily put on another forced smile. “Are we ready?”
“As ready as I’m going to be, Mrs. Becker.”
Emily gritted her back teeth every time Cora called her that. Somehow she managed to convey sarcasm in what would ordinarily be a respectful form of address.
When Emily stepped out onto the back porch she saw the farm wagon, hitched and waiting. Even more surprising, she saw Luke himself beside the team, wearing the same dress clothes he’d worn when she’d met him, and looking far too handsome for her peace of mind. His dark hair ruffled in the morning breeze and caught sparks of sun, making it glint with chestnut and sable lights. Her heart felt as if it turned a somersault in her chest.
“Mr. Becker, you’ve changed your mind?”
He shrugged, “Yeah, well, I decided I could spare a morning. Anyway, I thought you could use a ride.”
Emily turned to Rose. “There, you see? Your father is coming along.”
Rose wore a sour expression but let him lift her to the back of the wagon where he’d set up two kegs for seats. In the meantime, Cora managed to heft her compact girth up to the seat next to Luke’s place.
Luke shot her a frown, but Cora stared straight ahead and made no effort to move.
“I guess I’ll join you, Rose,” Emily said, trying to make light of the situation. Luke handed her up to the wagon bed and she took her place on the keg next to his daughter.
“Age before beauty, Mrs. Becker,” Cora murmured to her as Luke came around the wagon. Emily could hear the sarcastic smirk in her words and her blood simmered. “Age before beauty.”
~~*~*~*~~
Luke did his best to keep his mind on Reverend Ackerman’s fairly gloomy sermon, but it wasn’t easy, mostly because no one else was paying much attention to the man, either. From the moment they’d walked in, Luke felt all eyes turn toward him and his family. Heads bent to whisper and a general wave of murmuring swept over the little congregation in Fairdale Church. It was especially obvious because they were sitting in the back pew and people turned to stare, not only at him but at Emily too. Why the hell had he let her shame him into coming along today? Even while he’d stood at his mirror knotting this strangling tie again—he’d worn the damned thing twice in a week—he kept telling himself that he wouldn’t go, not even for Rose. That he wouldn’t let prissy Emily Cannon and her prissy notions of gentility force him to get dressed up and go to church. But now here he was, and it felt every bit as awkward as he’d expected.
Beside him, Emily seemed to be far more at ease. She sat with her hands folded in her lap, serene and ladylike, and appeared not to notice all the curious gawkers. Only once did she lean over and whisper to Rose, he supposed to stop the girl’s fidgeting. The pew was crowded, with the four of them wedged in next to Bob Cook’s brood, and now and then Luke’s thigh would brush against Emily’s. The sensation shot right up his leg to—well, it didn’t help keep his mind on whatever the minister was talking about. She smelled nice, too, like summer grass and clean wind.
Josiah Ackerman obviously sensed that his flock’s attention was wandering because the volume of his voice kept increasing. From his pulpit, he insisted, “Our hunger will be sated, our thirst quenched. The Lord visits upon us sinners only those burdens that He knows we can bear, and gives us His grace to endure until we are finally returned to His loving arms.” As far as Luke could tell, that meant life was miserable but a little better than completely hopeless.
Oh, hell, now Ackerman had everyone standing up to sing, just as he’d predicted. This whole thing was turning into flat-out torture, between his tie, and the staring, and Emily with her nice smell and long leg next to his. She opened a hymnal to share with him and took up the song. Her voice, clear and sweet, raised goose bumps on his arms and scalp. He didn’t know the hymn very well, but Emily didn’t even need to consult the text as she sang
something about “a wretch like me.” He didn’t want to sing anyway. He’d rather listen to her. The sun streamed through the windows and caught her in an arch-shaped beam, lighting up her hair like spun gold. He didn’t know much about God; he wasn’t even sure he believed God existed. But if he did, Luke was pretty sure he could hear Emily this morning, and he doubted that God would consider her to be any kind of wretch. When the song ended, she glanced up and gave him a self-conscious smile that made him smile back.
At last, the minister took pity on them all and pronounced the benediction. There was a general milling toward the doors in the back, and Luke was anxious to get away before he got trapped by the busybodies who would probably give voice to the questions they’d formed during the service. He didn’t look back as he edged toward the door—he just hoped that Emily, Rose, and Cora were right behind him.
But once he’d gained his freedom outside, he realized that they weren’t with him and he found himself in the middle of a group of chatting people.
“Luke! Luke Becker! I thought that was you.” He knew that voice. He’d heard it under more intimate circumstances than these. Clara Thurmon hailed him from across the churchyard and he felt as if he’d been shot in the back during his escape attempt.
He turned to face the woman who, in her girlhood, had been reasonably attractive. But the last ten years had been less than kind to Clara—her pale mustache was a new addition, and her hair was already sprinkled with gray. She was as dull-looking as one of Cora’s hens. Her nearly lashless eyes bore a brittle glint behind their spectacles. “Uh—hi, Clara.”
“What a happy surprise!” she chirped. “I never expected to see you at church. I’m glad that you’ve decided to break away from the farm and come into town.” Her brittle glint turned a bit coy, and she gazed at him from beneath her sparse lashes. “Does this mean we’ll be seeing more of you? You know, we’re having a basket social here next month to raise money for a new church roof. I organized it, so you know it’ll be a big success.” Clara never missed an opportunity to blow her own horn, a trait that had always irritated him.
The Bridal Veil Page 7