witches of cleopatra hill 06 - spellbound

by Pope, Christine

  “Yes.” She hesitated, then decided she might as well be as truthful as she could. After all, she would have to gain Robert Rowe’s trust somehow. She did find herself somewhat heartened that he wasn’t entirely unsympathetic to “Eliza’s” plight. “I had to tell him the truth. He understood that I was in a difficult situation, and so he offered me his protection.”

  Once again Robert Rowe seemed to go ice cold. “Oh, he did, did he?”

  “I thought it quite a gallant gesture,” Danica replied, nettled. “He did not have to do that.”

  “Perhaps not, but Jeremiah Wilcox, I have heard, rarely does anything that does not serve his interests. I am quite sure his main intention was to make you feel indebted to him.”

  “I am indebted to him. For his consideration, and his kindness. It was certainly not what I had expected.”

  She all but flung these words at Robert Rowe, and his lips pressed together. “You should be careful, Miss Prewitt,” he said. “He is a powerful man, and I understand that he has given you reason to feel grateful. But you would do well to fear his intentions. I have heard that he does not have the best of luck in his wives.”

  Having delivered that shot, he nodded brusquely at her, then moved swiftly away before she had a chance to do anything but open her lips to retort that Jeremiah Wilcox’s luck with wives had absolutely nothing to do with her. But since she’d been left standing there, alone, she closed her mouth in grim silence and stalked off toward Mrs. Wilson’s boarding house.

  * * *

  Luckily, the lady of the house sat down with Clara and Danica for dinner that night, and so Clara was deprived of an opportunity to gossip any further about Robert Rowe. Instead, the conversation was confined to far more innocuous subjects, such as Danica’s plans to commission Mrs. Adams to make a few more dresses for her, and how the teaching had gone on Danica’s first day.

  Clara appeared consummately bored by those topics, but she didn’t try to interrupt, and only ate her chicken and dumplings in uncharacteristic silence. She brightened a good deal, however, when Mrs. Adams said, “It appears the trustees are going to hold a harvest dance at the school this Friday evening.”

  “Oh, I was hoping they would!” Clara exclaimed. “I heard Mrs. Finley talking about how they would have dances at the school, but they hadn’t held any since Ma and I — well, since I’ve been here.”

  Danica couldn’t help noticing how Clara stumbled at the mention of her mother, but since Mrs. Wilson seemed to be purposely ignoring that brief awkwardness, she decided she’d gloss over it as well. “A dance at the school?” she asked, setting down her knife and fork. “Where on earth do they hold it? Both classrooms are filled with desks.”

  “In Mrs. Marshall’s room. The men will move the desks in that schoolroom over to the one where you’re teaching, Miss Prewitt. Then there will be plenty of space for dancing.”

  That sounded like quite the undertaking, but she supposed all those desks probably could fit in her room, if the men got creative about where they put them. “Isn’t this sort of short notice? That is, to go to all that work.”

  Mrs. Wilson made a pshawing noise. “Not at all. I think they’d been discussing the matter for a bit, but today they decided on the date. So now you girls will have something to look forward to.”

  Clara all but clapped her hands together in excitement, but Danica couldn’t help experiencing a sudden sinking feeling. Sure, she’d studied the clothes and the manners and the local history as best she could. One thing she hadn’t bothered with very much was music or dance, thinking she wouldn’t need to know any of that.

  It looked as if she was about to be proved wrong.

  Wonderful.

  * * *

  It turned out that Clara was willing to help, since it had been a while since she’d attended any kind of dance, either. Although Danica still felt bone-tired at the end of the day, she roused herself enough to go into the parlor after dinner, pull off her boots, and practice the waltz and the polka with her housemate, along with more arcane dances such as quadrilles and the Virginia reel.

  “Of course, it’s a lot easier when you have more people to dance with,” Clara said, stopping to catch her breath after leading Danica through a figure of the reel. She put a hand against her waist, as if her stays felt too tight, then sent a curious glance in Danica’s direction. “I’m surprised you aren’t more familiar. Surely you must have danced back in St. Louis.”

  “Oh, we did,” Danica replied, searching frantically for a reason as to why she would be so clueless about something every young woman her age should be well acquainted with. “It’s just — I was rather sickly for some years, and so I often had to sit out.”

  That reply earned her a dubious glance. True, Danica knew she was slender enough, but she didn’t exactly look like someone who had been confined to her sickbed for long periods of time. But then Clara gave a small lift of her shoulders, as if the reason for Danica’s general cluelessness about the popular dances of the day wasn’t really her concern.

  Despite her worries about her general lack of expertise, Danica couldn’t help feeling a little thrill of curiosity about the upcoming dance. She and Robert Rowe hadn’t exactly parted on the best of terms after their encounter on Monday afternoon, and maybe in the congenial setting of a dance, he’d be a little friendlier.

  Or he could not show up at all, she told herself. He’s just come to town, so who knows if he was even invited?

  That thought sobered her. She had absolutely no idea what the protocol was for these sorts of things. Was everyone in town invited, or was it even an “invitation” sort of thing? Maybe everyone who wanted to come, did. That might be a little problematic. Some of the men she’d passed on the street were pretty rough-looking. She wasn’t sure she wanted to do a St. Cecilia Circle — whatever the heck that was — with one of them, let alone be held close in a waltz.

  Now, with Robert Rowe…maybe. Danica was still irritated with him for the way he had acted, although that irritation had mostly given way to curiosity by the time Friday rolled around and she was up in her room, changing out of her plaid daytime dress for the teal silk one. Would Robert even come to the dance? He didn’t exactly seem like the social type. Then again, it would give him an excellent opportunity to spy on — sorry, observe — the Wilcoxes. Surely they would be there, if the trustees were sponsoring the dance.

  A sudden suspicion came to her, and she frowned. Jeremiah Wilcox couldn’t have pushed for this dance so he would have an opportunity to see her socially, could he? No, that was ridiculous. She hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him since their conversation after church on Sunday, and besides, Mrs. Wilson had said that they’d held one of these harvest dances before, last fall after the school had newly opened. This just had to be a coincidence.

  Danica adjusted the carved tortoiseshell comb in her hair, and then slipped a garnet necklace around her throat. She’d bought the necklace to match her antique garnet earrings and ring, but because her daytime dresses all had high necks, she hadn’t had the opportunity to wear it yet. Now, though, it gleamed against the bare skin of her chest, which felt strange after being so buttoned up all week.

  The gown wasn’t too provocative, was it? When she’d tried it on, she’d loved the way it revealed just a hint of cleavage but wasn’t too low-cut. Well, low-cut by her standards. It now seemed almost daring. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much she could do about it at this late date.

  A dab of lip stain, and a bit of powder to take the shine off her nose. She hadn’t dared to bring any real makeup, but the lip stain was subtle enough, and powder was completely period-correct. The reflection looking back at her from the slightly warped mirror looked pretty glam compared to her workaday self of no makeup at all and high-necked gowns, and she hoped it wasn’t too much. Again, she couldn’t do much to change it all now.

  She made her way down the stairs, the silk of her skirts rustling elegantly against the steps. Mrs. Wilson and Clara were alr
eady waiting in the parlor. Clara practically gasped when Danica entered, and even the imperturbable Mrs. Wilson’s eyes widened.

  “Goodness, Eliza!” Clara exclaimed. “You look like a princess!”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that — ” Danica began, but Clara waved her hand.

  “Things must be mighty fine in St. Louis, for you to have a gown like that.” Her expression fell, and she looked down at the mid-blue dress of wool crepe she wore. Danica knew it was her Sunday gown, and the only thing Clara would have deemed suitable for an important event such as a dance. Still, it did rather pale in comparison with Danica’s teal silk.

  “Well, my mother had it made up for my last birthday party,” she said, hoping the explanation would be enough to quell the light of jealousy she saw in Clara’s eyes. “It’s certainly the finest gown I’ve ever had.” Which wasn’t even a lie. This thing definitely put the strappy little beaded number she’d worn to prom to shame.

  “Both you girls look lovely,” Mrs. Wilson said briskly. “That gown is just the color of your eyes, Clara, and is very becoming. Now, we should be going. It never does to be the last to arrive.”

  Clara didn’t seem inclined to argue, but pulled on her brown wool cape. Danica had brought her own black wool cloak with her, draped over one arm, and so she slipped it over her shoulders. It was now getting cold enough at night that a shawl would never have been sufficient.

  The three women went out of the house and hurried up the street toward the schoolhouse. Light streamed from all its windows, and as they approached, Danica could already hear music coming from within. Maybe that was better; she could slip in while people were dancing and watch for a bit, get her bearings that way.

  Admission was a quarter, with the proceeds going to the upkeep of the school and its grounds, as well as to books and whatever else might be needed. For all she knew, some of it might also be going to pay Mrs. Wilson for her room and board. Said room and board seemed to be the bulk of Danica’s own compensation, although she would also receive the princely sum of twenty-five dollars at the end of every month. Lord knows what everyone would think if they discovered she had some ten times that stashed away in the drawer that held her stockings and assorted undergarments.

  Danica’s untrained eyes told her that those in attendance were dancing some sort of quadrille, although she couldn’t begin to guess which one. Her studies of books and films set in the period had only told her so much, after all. The room truly had been cleared of all the desks, with Mrs. Marshall’s large oak desk called into duty as the admission table. She wasn’t the one who sat there, however, but Mrs. Adams the dressmaker, who took Danica’s quarter and praised her gown.

  “Why, if you don’t look like something out of Godey’s Ladies Book!” she said. “I’d love to be able to work on something that fine, although I must say the Wilcox ladies do get themselves up very well.”

  Her gaze moved toward the other end of the room, where Danica could just make out the Wilcox brothers and their wives, along with their sister Emma and her husband. They were all dressed very beautifully as well, in silken gowns in shades of deep blue and plum and dark wine red.

  And there was Jeremiah, too, in his long black coat, a crimson waistcoat gleaming beneath. His eyes caught hers, and Danica quickly glanced away. The last thing she wanted him to think was that she’d been deliberately looking at him.

  She pretended to be studying the room instead. It did look very transformed, with the swags of autumn leaves over the windows and all the desks gone, replaced by men and women in all their best finery. From what Danica could tell, there did seem to be some subtle segregation going on here. There were probably some forty people in attendance, but she could tell they all consisted of what Mrs. Wilson might have referred to as the “better people” — the shopkeepers and their wives, the property owners. No sign at all of the rougher sorts who worked at the mills, or the women who served drinks at the saloons. Not that Danica really knew any of them, either, but she’d passed enough people on the streets during her time here that she could recognize who’d been excluded tonight.

  That number seemed to include Robert Rowe. At least, she didn’t see him anywhere, even among the smiling, shifting dancers. The music was being provided by a woman seated at an upright piano in one corner, a fiddle player standing next to her. Getting the piano in here must have been quite a feat, and Danica had to salute the organizers for that accomplishment, as well as managing to make the room look like a welcoming place for a party, and not the plain rectangle of a chamber it actually was.

  Off to one side was a refreshment table with a punchbowl. That seemed to be the safest place to go, especially since Clara had forgotten to pout about her gown as she spied a tall fair-haired man a few years older than either she or Danica, and hurried off to speak to him. Mrs. Wilson was more sedate about taking her place with a group of middle-aged women who chatted in a corner, but it seemed clear enough that neither of Danica’s companions felt compelled to keep her company this evening.

  Well, fine. She didn’t need anyone to babysit her. All right, as the dance ended and people headed for the punch bowl, she could tell that a good number of eyes were on her, whether admiring, curious, or, as in the case of some of the women, more than a little jealous. How was she supposed to know that a dress like this would have been too flashy for Flagstaff? At least her cover story about being from St. Louis probably helped, as did the cash she’d flashed at Brannen’s earlier in the week. It wouldn’t take too much for people to figure out that she hadn’t accepted the teaching position because she was in need of the cash.

  The punch was tasty, although definitely not alcoholic. Just as well. She was going to have a hard enough time remembering half the dances Clara had taught her without being tipsy into the bargain.

  After thanking the woman who was pouring the punch, Danica moved off to one side so she would be more or less out of the way. People were already pairing off for the next dance, but Danica noticed none of the men seemed inclined to ask her. Intimidated by the dress, or simply because she was still more or less a stranger here, an unknown quantity?

  It was probably for the best. She could stand here and observe, and at least have the opportunity to wear the beautiful gown Jackie had made for her. Meanwhile, Clara could get some dancing and flirting out of her system. Yes, there she was, already standing up with the fair-haired man, the two of them facing another couple, as more and more people went out to the dance floor to form a large circle composed of sets of two couples, all in their little groups of four.

  Oh, lord, which one was that dance, anyway? Not that it really mattered, since it seemed pretty obvious she’d be sitting this one out. Danica lifted the cut-glass cup of punch to her lips and took another sip, hoping that she looked as if she was having a great time. If Robert Rowe didn’t show up, this whole evening was going to be pretty much a bust.

  “Miss Prewitt?”

  Jeremiah Wilcox’s voice.

  Danica started, but not badly enough that she spilled any of her punch — and, she hoped, not so badly that Jeremiah would notice.

  She turned toward him. “Good evening, Mr. Wilcox,” she said steadily, although it was impossible to ignore the admiration in his gaze as he regarded her. From anyone else, such a look would have been flattering. From the man who was her great-great-etc.-granduncle?

  Not so much.

  “I couldn’t help noticing you didn’t have a partner for the Spanish dance. My sister Emma and her husband Aaron could make up a new quartet — if, of course, you’re amenable.”

  Could she turn him down? Maybe, but it wouldn’t be very politic, and might even seem ungrateful, considering how he’d offered her the protection of the Wilcox clan.

  “Certainly, Mr. Wilcox. It’s very kind of you to ask.” Even as she replied, however, Danica found herself praying that those impromptu practice sessions with Clara would be enough to keep her from completely embarrassing herself.

 
; He smiled. “Let me take care of that for you,” he said, then plucked the half-drunk cup of punch from her fingers so he could return it to the woman who was watching the refreshment table. She seemed to be keeping track of whose cup was whose, fortunately. And if not…well, Danica’s immunizations were up to date, and she rarely got sick anyway.

  Jeremiah took her by the hand and led her to the dance floor, where they were met by his sister Emma and her husband. One could have almost mistaken Aaron Garnett for another Wilcox brother, since he was also tall and dark. However, his hair wasn’t quite as sooty, and his eyes were a warm brown instead of Jeremiah’s piercing black.

  “Emma, Aaron,” Jeremiah said. “This is Eliza Prewitt, our new teacher.”

  “Very nice to meet you,” Emma said. She was a lovely woman, probably right around thirty, with creamy pale skin that contrasted startlingly with her black hair and eyes.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Danica murmured, while Aaron Garnett echoed more or less the same sentiment.

  The piano and the fiddle together sounded a single chord, while everyone bowed or curtseyed to their partners. From watching the previous dance, Danica remembered half a beat too late that she was supposed to do so as well, and she had no idea whether her curtsey to Jeremiah Wilcox looked completely awkward, but there wasn’t much she could do about that.

  He affected not to notice, and as the dance began, she experienced a wave of relief. This was one of the dances where you held your partner’s hand and then the hand of the man opposite as you slowly went around in a circle. Not too hard, and nowhere near as intimate as a waltz. She could do this.

  Except for the part where, once you’d done the little set of movements with the group of people in your starting quartet, you were supposed to waltz with your partner around the circle until you came face to face with the next couple, and it started all over again. Danica tensed as Jeremiah’s arm went around her waist, but she could tell that he held her lightly, wasn’t attempting to pull her so close that it would be improper.