by Deeanne Gist
“Where would you like me to put this?” he asked.
“Come, I’ll show you.”
The grass crunched beneath his boots as they headed to the back of her house.
“Are you returning to the club to discuss … business with Essie?”
“I might swing by on my way home and see if she’s still there.”
Mrs. Lockhart nodded. “She wears her spinsterhood like a suit of armor, you know.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’ll take a man with great skill to find the chinks.”
He stopped, but the old woman kept going. She was much more intuitive than he’d given her credit for and in order to keep her quiet about his identity, he would need to cultivate a relationship of some sort with her.
That aside, he was willing to admit he wanted to find the chinks in Essie’s armor but didn’t think it wise. Not while his family relied on the goodwill of Darius. Instead, he should be working his way up through Sullivan Oil, learning everything he could about the business.
He’d been working hard during the day, sleeping hard at night. He’d been keeping an eye out for men who would make good partners and good investors. He’d been saving every penny he earned. And when the time was right, he planned to branch out on his own, build up his business and send for his mother and sister.
But that would take months yet. Years, even. His mother would probably be all right, but what about Anna? He decided to write another letter home. His sister must observe the customary year of mourning. Not just because it was the respectful thing to do, but because her very future depended on it.
“Take Monday, for example,” Mrs. Lockhart said, pulling Tony back into the present. He quickly caught up to her.
“If you were wanting to escort Essie to the Fourth of July celebration, you’d certainly have your work cut out for you.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
They rounded the house and came face-to-face with the silhouette of a giant derrick in her backyard. For houses in these parts, derricks had become as common as chimneys over the past few years—he’d seen the same thing happen in Beaumont, though he was a little surprised to find Mrs. Lockhart living under the shadow of such a monstrosity.
“You can prop Hilda right there,” she said.
Hilda? He leaned her machine against the derrick’s legs. The familiar smell of oil enveloped them. He figured he could find every derrick in Corsicana blindfolded just by sniffing for fumes.
“Are you going to ask our Essie to the celebration?”
A rabbit leaped from underneath a bush, then disappeared into the tree line. He cupped Mrs. Lockhart’s elbow and helped her onto the back porch. “I hadn’t thought much about it.”
“Perhaps you should.”
He considered her suggestion. Essie was already disrupting his schedule and his efforts to remain focused. He thought about her constantly. And tonight she’d looked so, well, pretty. Maybe taking her to this one event would relieve some of his pent-up tension.
“You think Miss Spreckelmeyer would tell me no?” he asked.
“I’m sure of it.”
He removed his hat. “You have any suggestions?”
Mrs. Lockhart smiled. “Yes. As a matter of fact, I do. Would you like to come in?”
He hesitated. “Only for a minute, ma’am.”
After such an unsettling evening, Essie wanted nothing so much as to be alone, so she had sent Shirley home. Without help, it would take twice as long to close up, but the quietness of the club at night never failed to soothe her.
She loved the vastness of the room and the way it magnified even the slightest of sounds. In the lamplight, the vaulted roof seemed closer somehow, and the stillness reminded her of church. Staying here when everyone else had gone gave her a sense of keeping vigil, and she loved sharing her thoughts with God when no one else was around.
One by one she began to extinguish the sconces along the far wall, each sputtering as she snuffed out their amber glow. At the sound of the door opening, she turned. Tony stepped through, searched the shadows until he found her, then pushed the door shut behind him. The latch clicked into place.
Light from the remaining lamps glazed the left side of his silhouette with gold. He tipped his hat back, then swaggered toward her, his footsteps echoing through the building.
As he approached, he studied her from hat to head, shoulder to waist, waist to toe, and back up again. The slow survey awakened in her long-forgotten—and certainly forbidden—desires.
He came to a stop just inches from her.
Not wanting to be in the dark with him, she twisted the metal knob on the lamp at her shoulder until the hissing flame bathed them both in light. His eyes shone, his whole face seemed to glow.
“I didn’t expect to see you again this evening,” she said. “Was there something you needed?”
“I received a telegram from the Baker brothers.”
He spoke quietly, his words saying one thing but the look on his face another. She hardly knew which overture to answer.
“What did it say?” she asked.
He slipped his hand behind his lapel, digging inside his shirt pocket. The blue cotton stretched tight across his chest, until he found and withdrew a crumpled piece of paper.
Pinching the edge with one hand, he unfurled it between the thumb and finger of his other, one slow stroke at a time. The parchment crackled, opening like a flower.
“M.C. is going to come in a few weeks,” he said, handing her the telegram.
She took hold of the message, but when she tried to draw it near, he didn’t let go. She waited, eyes down. He’d released her hairpin that night on Brianna’s porch. Surely he would release the paper now.
But he did not.
She tugged again.
“Essie?” he whispered.
She let go and took a step back.
He held the telegram suspended between them before finally reaching for her hand. He pressed the crumpled paper in her palm and gently squeezed before releasing her.
She curled her fist around the telegram, the paper rough against her skin. “What else does it say?”
“Read it.”
She opened her hand, but the note remained crumpled. Placing it against her stomach, she flattened it, then made the mistake of looking up.
She wished she’d left the lantern off. Tony’s eyes were dark. Intense. His nostrils flared.
She held the telegram up to the light, confirming that M.C. Baker would be here the fourteenth of July. “Thank you for arranging this.”
“You’re welcome.”
She handed him back the telegram. “Would it be too much to ask you to accompany me to the train station when he comes? That way you could point him out and make the introductions?”
He folded the paper into fourths, creasing each fold between thumb and fingernail. “It would be my pleasure.”
She moistened her lips. “Yes. Well. Thank you again.”
“You’re welcome again.”
He tucked the paper back into his shirt pocket.
She waited, but he said no more.
“Was there something else?” she asked.
He hesitated, then took a deep breath. “Is anyone taking you to the Fourth of July celebration?”
Her lips parted. “No.”
“I’d like to take you, Essie. Will you go with me?”
She ran her fingers along the skirt pleats at her waist. “My father usually escorts me to such events.”
He removed his hat, then tapped it against his leg. The light caught and highlighted the richness of his hair.
“Tony, I … How old are you?”
He lifted his brows. “Twenty-eight. Why?”
“Because I am a good deal older than you.” She gave a quick twist to the knob of the lamp, plunging them into darkness. “I’m afraid I must respectfully decline.”
She headed to the next sconce.
He
followed. “I’m only six years younger. That’s nothing.”
She spun around. “How do you know my age?”
“Mrs. Lockhart told me.”
“Mrs. Lockhart told you? Why would she do a thing like that?”
She started toward the sconce again, but he touched her arm, stopping her. “She said you still have plenty of years left in you.”
“Mr. Bryant!”
He held up his hands. “She said it, not me.”
She yanked on her cuffs. “The two of you gossiped about me?”
“Not in the way you mean. Mrs. Lockhart has a way of getting a fella to spill out more information than he has a mind to. By the time I got her home, she’d learned I was planning to ask you to the festivities.” He pulled on his ear. “Once she found that out, she gave me all kinds of tips and advice.”
Essie stiffened. “Like what?”
“She said you’d hide behind your spinsterhood—”
“I’m not hiding!”
“She said you’d worry over what people would think—”
“Well, of course I’d worry what people would think. I have a business to run and a reputation to uphold. I can’t be acting like a schoolgirl. Every one of my business acquaintances will be there.”
“She said you’d not want to step out with an employee—”
“And she’s absolutely right! That would be the height of stupidity.”
“She said your eyes shoot out sparks when you feel passionately about something.” His voice dropped and he took a step closer. “I can see she’s right.”
Essie retreated a step. “The answer is still no. Thank you for asking.”
She continued turning out lanterns all the way around the room.
He didn’t move or say a thing. One more sconce left. The one at the entrance.
“Are you coming, Mr. Bryant?” Her voice sounded shrill, even to her own ears.
He settled his hat on his head. “Yes, ma’am.”
He took his time, then instead of heading to the door, he removed her shawl from its hook and held it open for her.
Swallowing, she turned her back. He draped it across her shoulders, turned out the final lamp, opened the door and waited.
“You are not walking me home.”
He said nothing. Just held the door.
She hurried outside, but no matter how fast she walked, he stayed by her side. She suppressed a groan, chagrined that she’d allowed things to come to this.
She was still shocked by the objections he’d heard from Mrs. Lockhart. No doubt he had expected her to disown them, coming from his lips, but they had the opposite effect. Whatever attraction she might have felt for him, whatever scruples she’d been thinking to set aside before, the objections made perfect sense. After all, she was the boss and he was the worker. She had wealth and standing in the community, he had nothing.
What would people say if they saw him courting her? They would laugh at the difference in age and station. They would whisper behind her back about how desperate she’d become. They’d say he was after her wealth or, worse, her virtue.
And for all she knew, they’d be right. She could hardly trust her own judgment when it came to matters of the heart.
No. She had long since reconciled herself to being unmarried. Once she had finally embraced singleness, she found it suited her quite nicely. She must keep that at the forefront of her mind.
Tony never would have made his offer if Mrs. Lockhart hadn’t put him up to it, and now that Essie had refused, he ought to be grateful. It went against all his principles to complicate his personal mission by pursuing a woman. Instead, however, her refusal roused a deep-seated instinct to hunt, capture and conquer.
Essie was churning up dust just ahead of him, dragging him along like a fish on a hook. He lengthened his stride to keep up with her. The faster she bolted, the more he wanted to stop her, but they were almost halfway to her house and he still didn’t know what he’d say if he did.
Still, he reached out, gently grabbing her elbow. “Slow down.
You’re moving faster than a deacon taking up a collection.”
She yanked herself free and spun to face him. “I wouldn’t be going so fast if you would leave me be.”
Her chest was heaving. A few bits of hair had slipped loose of the fancy twist decorating the back of her head, and he wondered what she’d do if he reached over and took the pins out to let it fall.
“I like your hat,” he said.
A bit of the starch immediately left her. “Th-thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She touched the back of her head and discovered her disheveled hair. With jerky movements, she stuffed bits and pieces into place.
“Why won’t you go with me?” he asked.
She closed her eyes for a moment before answering. “Because I’m your boss. It is simply out of the question.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Surprise followed by a look of wariness crossed over her face.
He clasped her hand. “Why won’t you go with me?”
Her eyes welled up. “I can’t,” she whispered. “I can’t do this again. Please don’t ask it of me.”
He stroked her inner wrist with his thumb, catching part glove and part skin. “Can’t do what again?”
She tugged on her hand.
He interlocked their fingers. “Tell me.”
“We’ve an entire town of young, pretty girls much more suited to your age. I’m sure any one of them would be thrilled to accompany you.”
“I don’t want to go with them.”
“Why not?”
“Because I want to go with you.”
“Why?”
“Why?” He hesitated, stumbling over his thoughts. “Why do I want to go with you? You’re asking me why?”
“Yes.” She looked straight at him, a touch of confusion in her expression and not a little vulnerability.
In a whoosh, his pulse calmed, his vision cleared, the tension left him. “Because, Essie, you have real pretty eyes. You’re nicely put together. You’re not flighty and giggly like all those young girls you seem so anxious to thrust upon me. You showed an incredible amount of strength and character when Brianna was bitten by that snake. And when you smile, you have two dimples that I noticed the very first time I saw you. Remember? You’d just fallen off the banister.”
She’d gone stone still. “I didn’t fall off. My heel broke.”
“Go with me, Essie.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“It’s … complicated.”
“It’s not. It’s the simplest of things and it’s done every day by men and women all over God’s creation.”
“Not by me. And I won’t change my mind. So will you please let me go?”
He studied her. She meant every word. He dropped his hold.
She tucked her arm against her waist, well out of his reach.
“Good night, Mr. Bryant.”
“I’m walking you home, Essie.”
“Please don’t.”
He swept his hand in an “after you” gesture.
The pace she set was not exactly breakneck, but it wasn’t leisurely, either. He wanted to take her elbow but reconciled himself to simply walking beside her. They approached her house and he opened the gate.
“Thank you for seeing me home, Mr. Bryant. I believe I can make it to the door by myself.”
He tugged the rim of his hat. “As you wish, ma’am.”
She backed through the gate, then spun and raced up her sidewalk and into the safety of her home.
chapter TWELVE
THE FOURTH of July dawned full of promise. After breakfast, Tony went out on the streets, which were already packed with people. The whole of Corsicana was outdoors, basking under sunny skies punctuated by the occasional cloud.
He set a jaunty pace, falling into step with the people around him. Children darted through the crowds, and a morning breeze blew
down the lane, rustling ladies’ skirts. At Beaton Street, he paused while a marching band passed through the intersection, serenading the town with patriotic tunes.
He eyed a taffy vendor urging him to buy, but he shook his head. He couldn’t afford such frivolities. Every penny counted.
A pang of homesickness washed over him and he wondered if his mother and Anna would be attending Beaumont’s celebration. In years past, he’d always been their escort. Now they’d be adrift in the crowds—or worse, they would be under Darius’s thumb.
He’d only received one letter from them, a quick note conveying Mother’s relief that he’d found some work and her chagrin over Darius’s disregard for showing proper respect for the dead. At the time, though, both she and Anna were still in black.
A stray tabby wove between Tony’s legs. He stroked its matted fur, then followed the band as they made their way to the Velocipede Club. Essie was hosting a public ride and he aimed to witness the spectacle firsthand.
On the way, he saw familiar faces from the rigs. Most of his working buddies had started their celebration in the saloons and would not find their way out for at least another hour. A few of the oilmen, however, had already imbibed and were ready to commence with the day’s activities.
Females of every age, size, and shape came bedecked in all their finery. He watched them kick up the back of their skirts as they strolled on the arms of their husbands, fathers, and beaus.
He wondered what Essie was wearing and how much it would cost to win her box supper. Slipping his hand in his pocket, he ran his fingers over the coins jingling there. He’d have to set himself a limit—not so low as to be insulting, but not so high he couldn’t part with the money.
If someone else outbid him, he’d just have to live with it. He would bid, though, for as long as he could, on whatever basket matched her clothing.
The care and planning that went into a woman’s Fourth of July outfit was second only to her Easter attire. For Essie, the burden was greater, because she had a reputation to maintain, and she no longer had her mother to conspire with. As she approached the bandstand of the Velocipede Club, she glanced down at her white dotted-swiss gown one last time hoping she had achieved her desired effect. The front of her skirt was pleated in, its folds caught with a series of blue bows, each held by a fancy button.