The incantations took on a higher pitch, and Christine clenched her jaws. I will not scream. I will not fling my lamp across the wagon and set that altar on fire. Although . . . burnt offerings were acceptable gifts to God in biblical times . . . .
As the thunder rumbled, Christine thought about what was probably happening at the Academy for Young Ladies. Lectures on household management, perhaps. Or sewing clothes for the orphans. How lovely it would be, to hear the steady thrum of the treadle machine as fabrics passed through her hands. Or to attend a lesson in the large, modern kitchen on how to properly carve a lamb roast.
What she wouldn’t do for a taste of civilized food—even a dip of her finger in the pan drippings! While she understood the necessity of dried beans, desiccated vegetables, and the small animals Tucker shot to roast over their campfires, she might just toss the next slice of dried apple she saw into the flames. Pale and tasteless as it was, it would make better fuel than food.
And their confinement had done nothing to improve the odor of Mrs. Trudeau’s clothes. The dank aroma of the rain, coupled with the fact that none of them had bathed lately, made the witchy-woman’s musky incense even more disagreeable. And she couldn’t even open a window because there was none!
I will not scream! she reminded herself. The chant behind her had risen to a sing-song that sent cold shivers up her spine. It reminded her of eerie scenes from the birthing—Libby with her eyes rolled back and the candles flickering wildly beside the bed as this Gypsy summoned her saints and angels.
I asked for this. Lord love me, I insisted on coming.
Silence suddenly filled the dim wagon—a sensation nearly as unsettling as those never-ending prayers. With a wink, Tucker looked over his shoulder at the hunched figure still sitting on her bunk, gazing at her altar gewgaws—if indeed she saw them. Christine had watched Veronique Trudeau enter trancelike states that sometimes lasted several minutes and made the wagon feel like all the air had been sucked from it.
“Tu es fini, Maman?”
Tucker’s mother gave him a blank stare. She sat so absolutely still, Christine wondered whether the woman was even breathing.
Then Veronique shuddered, focusing on her. Looking through her, as though she were as transparent as one of Tucker’s glass negatives. It was an eerie feeling, but Christine refused to drop her gaze—refused to be intimidated by a woman who communed with unseen people. Or said she did.
Mrs. Trudeau railed at her son in rapid-fire French. He responded calmly.
Once again, Veronique was talking about her as though she wasn’t even there.
Then the woman scooted off her bunk, yanked a shawl and some flour sacks from the bin she’d been sitting on, and threw open the wagon’s door. She stalked outside, muttering.
Tucker rolled over the edge of his suspended bed. “Maman is right. No more rain!” he said as he detached the hammock from its hooks.
Christine scowled. “That’s not what she was talking about, Tucker. I might not follow every word you two say, but—”
“She insisted you need some fresh air,” he said with a sly grin. He removed two of the metal bins from the wall and slipped into his coat. “Maman, she says you were screaming at her, inside yourself. Ready to throw your lamp and set her on fire. You will be my assistant? While I print pictures?”
Her mouth fell open. My Lord, I can’t even think without that little witch knowing—“Yes—yes, that’s a fine idea!” she blurted. “I’ll get my coat and—”
He caught her by the hand as she turned. “Pack your valise, chérie,” he murmured. “We will set up the prints, and I’ll take you into town. To get us rooms. You want a nice bath—a real bed, and time for washing clothes, non?”
“Non! Oui!” Christine gasped. Her heart raced with the idea of a feather mattress, and clean sheets—a soak in hot, soapy water!
Then she narrowed her eyes. “What about you and your mother?”
“Maman et moi, we’ll be back by nightfall. I have negatives to send back east, and then we’ll eat a nice dinner,” he said, brushing her knuckles with his lips. “And we’ll all feel better in the morning, oui?”
“We must use this sunlight. In winter, the days bright enough for making prints don’t come often.”
Tucker watched the slender redhead place sheets of sensitized paper along the boards he’d brought from the wagon. While she was good help, eager to learn, she would be on her guard now—afraid to speak her mind. Or to even think.
Rather than the recent landscapes of the plains he’d taken for the railroad, Tucker chose the shots of the Malloys. As he centered the glass negatives on the paper, he considered his next move.
“Oh, there’s Billy and the children!” Christine studied their pale images, shifting subtly closer to him. “All you do is put these negatives on paper and it makes a photograph?”
Her green eyes gazed up into his and he melted. In the fragile autumn sunlight, her skin looked fresh and soft, while her lips parted, waiting for kisses.
But Tucker felt her wariness: Maman was over in the trees by the Platte River, gathering herbs. Watching them.
“The paper is specially treated,” he replied, “which is why we handle it by the edges. You do well, ma princesse, tilting the negatives to coat them with the wet collodion, too. I’m glad you’ve come along.”
His praise brought Christine’s own special sunshine from behind her hesitant smile. “I’m quite good with my hands—”
“Ah, oui,” he said with a chuckle. “How quickly they bridled Sol that night you rode off—”
“—and I catch on fast when . . .”
She nipped her lip at the reminder of that escapade, and he kicked himself for bringing it up. It was just as Malloy had predicted: Living with two women who competed for his loyalty was wearing on him. Best to complete this task and head into North Platte while Maman hunted for her herbs. She was standing now, looking right at them.
He smiled at Christine, hoping to recapture their lighter mood. “How can I ever forget you catching on to me, chérie?” he quipped softly. “Out by the moonlit river. I was good with my hands, too, non?”
The vein in her neck throbbed with sudden urgency—how he longed to kiss that soft, sweet pulse point! But Christine clutched the packet of paper, aware of their audience. They’d stolen only a few kisses these past two weeks—just enough to fan her innocent fantasies and set him afire, as well.
“I—can your mother really tell what I’m thinking?” she rasped. “Have you always had to deal with that? To live without the least little secret?”
He laughed out loud. “It is you girls who keep secrets,” he teased as he positioned the last negatives. “And I will tell you that Maman, sometimes she is a lucky guesser. She was sixteen once, you know.”
Her russet brow arched. She was wise in many ways he was not, this Christine, and it tickled him that she had such a quick wit.
“And she had me by then,” he added, “so I’m sure she had her troubled thoughts. And oui—she throws things sometimes. Now—let’s get you into town,” he said, collecting the rest of the paper. “By the time I come back here, these prints will be ready.”
An hour later, he felt much better. Mrs. Padgett’s rooming house on the edge of North Platte was clean and reasonable, and Christine looked happier than she had since they’d left the ranch. Perhaps it was the bathtub down the hall from her room, or the prospect of a few peaceful hours to herself . . . or the long, tender kiss they’d shared before he left her upstairs.
It was the right thing to do, bringing her here. Christine was used to her little luxuries, whether or not Maman approved. If he had to sell extra portraits along the way, it was worth his time to indulge her. What young lady didn’t want to be clean and presentable? She was handling life in the wagon better than he’d expected . . . and when he looked at Maman from Christine’s young, educated viewpoint, Tucker was well aware of how odd his mother appeared.
With that in mind, he
smiled at Mrs. Padgett, a plump partridge of a woman with every hair in place. “Two dollars each room, oui, madame?” he asked as he reached for his money clip. “I’ll pay you for two nights, and we will be three for dinner when I return with my mother.”
“Let me bring you some change, Mr.—”
“I am Tucker Trudeau, and happy to leave you a little extra because—” He flashed her a conspiratorial grin. “Maman, she snores.”
“Oh, Mr. Trudeau, that’s quite all right—”
He let her chatter, guessing she was perhaps fifty; a woman without a man, if her taste for lace and pastel walls were any indication. He’d noticed not a hint of pipe tobacco, and most of the parlor chairs tended toward dainty rockers without arms.
“—and what did you say your wife’s name was?”
Tucker blinked. His insides skittered at the thought of playing such a charade, but he needed no more complications than he already had with his two women.
“Miss Bristol is my—how do you say?—assistant,” he announced with a grin. “I am a photographer, you see. Making pictures for the Union Pacific—but if you like, I could make your portrait, too. Or one of your rooming house, so hundreds of people who see the railroad’s pamphlets will know of a good place to stay. I can print them before we leave.”
Mrs. Padgett’s round face radiated a matronly interest—until a frown furrowed her brow. She folded his money into her pudgy fist. “I think not,” she said crisply. “A lady must be careful these days, Mr. Trudeau. You know what they say about fools’ names and fools’ faces.”
Tucker blinked. It was a rare woman who wouldn’t have her portrait made. And why didn’t she want travelers to know about her boardinghouse?
“Bien sûr. I understand,” he said, placing his hat back on his head. “Maman et moi, we’ll be back by six for dinner. Miss Bristol, she will enjoy a hot bath and a chance to wash some clothes. Merci, madame!”
He paused outside the tidy house, gazing along the direction of the railroad tracks until he spotted a huge roundhouse, where he could send off his prints and plates.
Had he said something wrong to Mrs. Padgett? Misunderstood her English?
Or were some women just more complicated than others?
Chapter Fifteen
Christine let herself drift in the tub of hot, bubbly water. Smelling of lavender soap, with her hair clean at last, she felt nearly civilized again.
Since Mrs. Padgett and her sister Polly had been kind enough to heat so many pails of water, she’d brought her dirty underthings and a few dresses to wash out as well. It wasn’t the modern way they’d learned at the academy, where Miss Vanderbilt stressed the use of fresh water for each new task, but it seemed the polite thing to do. While her hostess kept a proper rooming house, it was clear she couldn’t afford any little extras.
A knock at the door startled her.
“Yes? I—I’m almost finished!” she yelped.
Lord, had she fallen asleep? Surely no one else wanted to bathe in the middle of the day!
“We have something to discuss, Miss Bristol—or whoever you really are,” came a voice through the door.
Christine grabbed her towel and stood up. What on earth had Tucker told Mrs. Padgett? Perhaps it seemed unusual for a man to leave a younger woman at a rooming house while he fetched his mother, but it wasn’t like they’d committed any social blunders. He’d paid for two rooms, after all!
She stopped blotting her hair. Why, it sounded like magpies were chattering in the hallway. Biddy hens gossiping about—
A key clicked in the lock and the door flew open.
“What on God’s earth—? What’re you—?”
Clutching the skimpy towel around herself, Christine gaped as the room filled with women old enough to be her grandmother. They surrounded the tub, glaring at her.
“Yessir, that’s the one! The very woman who sold me that—”
“Shameless hussy! Showing your face in this town again, after you—”
“Polly, go get the sheriff!” Mrs. Padgett called from beside the tub. “With all of us here, she won’t get away this time.”
“You tell her, Matilda!” the oldest biddy clucked. The white bun at the nape of her neck began to quiver, she was so agitated.
Matilda Padgett’s face contorted with rage as she planted her fists on her hips. She was standing so close, Christine could’ve smacked the eyeglasses from her face. But she didn’t dare.
“You’ve got nerve,” Mrs. Padgett said, and her friends hushed so they could catch every damning word. “Fool me once, shame on you. But fool me twice—well, I’m not falling for it!”
“I—I don’t know what—”
“Don’t play innocent with me,” the landlady snapped. “You might’ve sashayed in here with a different man—not so polished around the edges this time—but I’d know you anywhere.”
The old lady with the bun stepped forward to thrust a large, leather-bound Bible at her. “What kind of heathen preys upon a widow in her darkest hour? Claiming that her dear, departed husband bought her this fine family Bible as a special gift, right before he died?”
“But he hadn’t paid for it, you said. So you stole twenty dollars from me!” a lady in the back bellowed.
“Twenty?” another one cried. “This shyster cheated me out of twenty-five! And my embossed name is peeling off the cover like cheap paint!”
“It is cheap paint,” the one in the bun said. “My name is not Harrie Butt.”
Hairy butt! Now there was a story to make the girls snicker! Christine thought.
But she wasn’t in school anymore, was she? She stood nearly naked in a bathtub, surrounded by angry women who expected a confession for sins she hadn’t committed. Sins that baffled her.
The matron beside Matilda was holding her Bible higher now, so Christine couldn’t miss the peeling personalization on the cover. The indented lettering spelled Harriet Butterfield, but through an unfortunate twist of fate only HARRIE BUTT retained its original golden luster.
The shyster these ladies were hounding her about had pressed the letters into the white leather and then filled them in with gold paint—which made the Good Book look tawdry even before the personalization began to peel. And as the others held up their Bibles in silent testimony to this cheap trick, Christine wanted to shoo them all from this airless room so she could dress—so she could think about what these outlandish accusations meant.
But they were standing fast, waiting for the sheriff. And she was shivering in a towel, completely at their mercy. And completely baffled.
There had to be some compelling reason Matilda Padgett had rounded up her widowed friends after Tucker left her here, but her heart was pounding so hard she couldn’t for the life of her think what it could be.
“I—I don’t understand why—”
“Your mother would be ashamed!” Matilda hissed, her eyes narrowing behind her spectacles. “A comely young woman like yourself, helping that huckster with the handlebar mustache—”
Christine’s mouth fell open. The picture Mrs. Padgett was painting became painfully clear: Mama and Richard Wyndham had suckered money from these ladies who’d lost their husbands.
And they thought she was Mama.
“I can explain everything, if you’ll just—”
“Oh, don’t think you’ll weasel out of this!” Mrs. Butterfield said smugly. “Once we knew we’d been bamboozled, we put our heads together—”
“And then I recalled that one of my lodgers had a small press stashed under his bed,” Matilda continued. “But by the time we convinced Sheriff Carson to come confiscate it, your huckster husband—or whoever he is!—with the English accent had disappeared like mist in the morning sun. And you along with him!”
Your mother would be ashamed . . . disappeared like mist . . .
The awful truth kicked her square in the chest. Her throat got so tight she couldn’t speak—and what would she say? Who could admit to this roomful of spitfire wid
ows that her own mother had done this to them?
Christine’s chin dropped to her chest. Despite her efforts to think on her feet—to win them with the social skills Miss Vanderbilt had drilled into her—tears dribbled down her cheek.
“Oh, no, you don’t!” Mrs. Butterfield said. “That crying over your own lost husband was just an act. A way to make us all think, when you came to call after the funerals, that you understood our grief. Get out of that tub! If the sheriff’s not around, why—we’ll march you over to the jail ourselves!”
“Without clothes, if we have to,” another one piped up.
When they all cheered, Christine knew she was in more trouble than her academy training could help her out of. After all, when had Agatha Vanderbilt ever been caught—nearly naked—in her mother’s lies?
What would Miss Vanderbilt do?What would Mercy do?
This thought made her stand taller, made her hold her head up and look at her cackling accusers and see them for the . . . plain but proper prairie women they were. Women alone, forced to get by without their husbands—just as Mercy had to run the way station after Judd was killed. They felt outraged at being taken for fools. And taken for money they couldn’t afford, thinking their husbands had bought them one last gift.
Oh, Mama, what a despicable—how could you do this to them? she fretted. How could you do this to me?
“Ladies, please.” Christine spoke above their angry chatter. “If you’ll give me a moment to dress, I’ll show you a photograph from my valise—”
“Oh, we won’t be falling for that one,” came Polly’s voice from the door. “I’ve brought Harley Carson to settle this, once and for all!”
“High time you showed up, Sheriff!”
“How nice of you to be in town for a change.”
“We told you that Englishman was a skunk!”
The short, fleshy man in the doorway wore a bemused expression. As he studied her, his crowsfeet deepened into webs . . . webs that called to mind twin spiders when she saw his dark eyes.
Journey to Love (Angels of Mercy) Page 13