Calico Ball

by Kelly, Carla

  “Will you dance with me, Mirabelle?”

  “I don’t know how,” she reminded him.

  He wrapped his arm around her waist and tucked her up to him. “We’ll work on the steps later. For now, I just want to hold you.”

  “That’s not part of our arrangement,” she reminded him, her heart pounding in her chest.

  “It ought to be part of our new one.”

  She set her arm at his shoulder, her other hand still in his. As the lilting music filled the tiny room, he swayed with her in his arms. No words were needed. They simply held each other with the promise of a new beginning.

  “It’s an uncomfortable thing being here with the two of you.” Da eyed Quinn and Mirabelle over his book.

  They were sitting together on the sofa. Mirabelle was seeing to a bit of sewing. Quinn was enjoying a rare quiet moment. They weren’t even talking.

  “We’re only sitting here, Da.”

  Da raised a brow. “Sure you are. And I’m the King of England.”

  “I think you mean the queen, yeah?”

  Da rolled his eyes and returned his attention to his book.

  Mirabelle moved a bit closer and rested her head against Quinn’s upper arm. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  She smiled broadly. “For making him uncomfortable.”

  Quinn laughed deeply. “I am just sitting by you.”

  She threaded her arm through his, embracing it. “You didn’t used to sit by me.”

  He brushed his fingers along her silky hair. “I made a mull of it, didn’t I?” With the pad of his thumb, he traced her jaw. “But we’re finding our new arrangement. We’re sorting it.”

  She closed her eyes, contentment in her expression. “Yes, we are.”

  He bent and placed a kiss on her forehead. He’d done that a few times since their dance the night before. The simple gesture brought such a look of relief to her face, as if a weight she’d been carrying for too long were momentarily lifted.

  She needed tenderness, affection, gentleness. He would begin building their new relationship there, giving her reason to trust him and reminding himself how lucky he was to have her in his life. He had not a doubt in his mind that in time they’d grow to fully love each other. Not a doubt.

  Someone knocked at the door.

  Mirabelle sat up straight once more, setting her sewing aside. As she made to slip her arm from his, Quinn took hold of her hand. She smiled back at him as she stood.

  “I do need to answer the door,” she said.

  “I know.”

  “As I said, you two are a bit uncomfortable to be around.”

  Mirabelle sent him an apologetic smile but didn’t make any promises. Quinn leaned back on the sofa, amused and touched and hopeful.

  She opened the door. Mrs. Howell, the preacher’s wife, stood on the other side. “Please, come in,” Mirabelle said.

  Mrs. Howell did and offered greetings, which were returned. Da’s contribution was a mutter and a dip of his head. No one was surprised. He’d kept to himself since Ma died. Everyone in town had learned to accept his grumpiness.

  “Everyone was sorry not to see you at the calico ball last evening,” Mrs. Howell said.

  Quinn set his arm around Mirabelle’s waist, keeping her at his side. “My train came in late.”

  “Sam Carpenter wasn’t there to play the guitar. He must have been on the same train you were.”

  Quinn nodded. “He was.”

  “Let’s hope you won’t be gone for the Christmas ball.”

  “I don’t intend to be.”

  Mirabelle leaned into his one-armed embrace. “There’s a ball at Christmas?”

  “A small one,” he told her. “The snow is heavy by then, and the weather is unpredictable. Not everyone can make it to town.”

  Mrs. Howell smiled at them. “I’ve come for the dress,” she said.

  “What dress?” Mirabelle could not possibly have looked more confused.

  “The dress you made for the ball.”

  “You want my dress?” Mirabelle choked on the question.

  Oh, heavens. Hadn’t he told her about that? Likely not. He’d forgotten himself until that moment.

  “That is the most important part of the calico ball,” Mrs. Howell explained. “The dresses we make are donated for the benefit of the poor. Many of ours will be sent to Cheyenne, where there are more in need.”

  “Oh.” Mirabelle had turned both paler and splotchy with color. “I didn’t know. It is the only dress I have other than this one.” She picked at the skirt of her black dress. “I was going to save it for special days. It’s blue.”

  She’d told him several times how happy she was to have a blue dress, and she’d been so pleased with how it had turned out.

  “It is tradition,” Mrs. Howell said. “Those who need the dresses are in far worse straits than we are.”

  “I—I hadn’t intended to be selfish. I didn’t know.” The heaviness that had left her eyes returned. “I can get it. Just a moment.”

  Mirabelle slipped stiffly from his arm. She moved with halting steps to the door of her bedroom. Quinn’s heart broke watching her. She’d been so happy with her dress, and she’d worked so hard.

  He looked to their visitor. “She really didn’t know. I forgot to tell her that part.”

  Mirabelle would be heartbroken. She wasn’t an ungiving person—far from it—but that dress meant a great deal to her. There had to be a way to make this right.

  “Excuse me a moment.” He moved swiftly to Mirabelle’s room, unsure what he was going to say, but hoping he could think of something.

  She stood near her bed, her beloved blue gingham dress in her arms. “I don’t want to give it to her. Does that make me horribly selfish?”

  “Of course not, Mira.” He pulled her into his embrace. “You didn’t know you were expected to part with it.”

  She leaned her head against his chest. “I can make another one, I suppose, the next time we can afford some more fabric.”

  “I’ll talk with her,” Quinn said. “Perhaps I could convince her to let you skip the donating this time or let me purchase something else she could send to Cheyenne.”

  From within his embrace, she shook her head. “I won’t add to your debts. My heart will ache a bit, but I can part with the dress. I only needed a minute to convince myself.”

  “But it means so much to you.” He knew it did.

  “There are others who need it more.” He heard the resolve in her voice, but he also heard the sorrow.

  “I hate that you are hurting, my dear.”

  She reached up and touched his face, stretching on her toes and pressing a kiss to his jaw. “Dance with me after supper, and I’ll feel better.”

  “Gladly.”

  Her lips trembled a bit even as she squared her shoulders. “I’d best not keep Mrs. Howell waiting any longer.”

  He took her free hand in his and walked with her back to the parlor, ready to support her as she parted with her treasured dress. He’d spent what little extra he had on her music box. He didn’t regret the purchase, especially when it meant he could dance with her, but he hadn’t money enough to replace her dress any time soon.

  Da stood near Mrs. Howell, talking. He never did that. “The Quinns’ll give a dress, sure thing, but there’s no need to take it from our Mirabelle. She came to us with so little.” He held out a green dress Quinn hadn’t seen in years. “It was m’ wife’s. It’s a bit out of fashion, but it’s well-made and good fabric.”

  Da had packed away Ma’s clothes when she died, and there they had stayed the past few years. The trinkets and decorations remained out, though he guarded them fiercely. Her more personal belongings he’d tucked away, just as he did nearly every bit of himself.

  “Someone’ll be right glad to receive it.” Da set the dress in Mrs. Howell’s hand. “Now, take it. I’ve a book to get back to.”

  He returned to his chair and his book and his isol
ation. Quinn couldn’t look away. Da had parted with a dress of Ma’s—willingly. He’d never imagined his father doing that.

  Mirabelle managed some kind of farewell and saw their visitor out. The moment she closed the door, she turned back and rushed to where Da sat.

  She wrapped her arms around him, her dress still clutched in one hand. She didn’t say anything.

  Da pulled her in for a brief hug. “You’re a good lass, and we’re fortunate to have you.”

  “Thank you.” She pulled back, her smile tremulous. “Thank you.”

  “Quinn there’ll offer you all the you’re-welcomes you’re wanting.” He raised his book once more.

  “Are you sure you won’t be uncomfortable?” she asked with a twinkle in her eye.

  “I will be, but I’ll survive.”

  Mirabelle clutched her dress to her heart and turned to Quinn. “He saved my dress.”

  “I know it.”

  She moved to him. “But why?” she asked quietly.

  He took her face in his hands. “He loves you, though I doubt he’ll ever say it. And I love you.” He surprised even himself with that declaration, but he didn’t wish it unsaid.

  “I’ve never been loved.” She pushed out a deep breath with a smile. “I’ve always wanted to be.”

  “You are now.” He bent and kissed her forehead. “You are now.”

  She set her hand on his arm. “Will your father slaughter us if I ask you to dance with me?”

  “He could try, but he’s not a young man anymore.”

  Mirabelle bit back a grin.

  “Quit yapping and dance with the girl.” Da flipped a page of his book. “Elsewise, I’ll have Mrs. Howell come back so I can send you to Cheyenne.”

  Mirabelle looked back at Da. “I’ll not let you send him away.”

  Quinn, standing behind her, wrapped his arms around her and bent over so his face rested beside hers. “I put the music box in the kitchen. There’s room enough for dancing, and Da won’t be bothered by us there.”

  She turned her head. “An excellent plan.”

  He walked with her hand in hand toward the kitchen door. He looked back. Da was watching him. For the first time in ages, Da smiled.

  “Thank you,” Quinn silently mouthed.

  Da nodded.

  In the kitchen, Mirabelle carefully laid her gingham dress over the back of the rocking chair she sometimes sat in near the stove. She ran her fingertips over it. Emotion edged her eyes.

  “He gave up something of your mother’s to save my dress.” She set her hand on her heart. “That was such a sacrifice.”

  “You’ve changed him for the better, dear. You’ve changed both of us.”

  She smiled at him. “Are you happy you sent for me, then?”

  He opened the lid of the music box. The quiet waltz began on the instant. He reached for her. She didn’t hesitate. Rather than assume dancing position, though, she reached up, her hands reaching nearly to his shoulders. He bent, and she slid her arms around his neck. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to him. Her feet lifted from the ground.

  She was so tiny, yet so very perfect, even for a giant like him. Holding her that way, he looked into her eyes. His gaze traveled to her lips, so near his. Tentatively, hopefully, he kissed her. She didn’t pull back but held more firmly to him as the warmth of her enveloped him.

  “I love you too, Quinn,” she said. “I really do.”

  “That sounds to me like the start of a perfect arrangement.”

  Click on the covers to visit Sarah’s Amazon author page:

  Sarah M. Eden is the author of multiple historical romances, including the two-time Whitney Award Winner Longing for Home and Whitney Award finalists Seeking Persephone and Courting Miss Lancaster. Combining her obsession with history and affinity for tender love stories, Sarah loves crafting witty characters and heartfelt romances. She has thrice served as the Master of Ceremonies for the LDStorymakers Writers Conference and acted as the Writer in Residence at the Northwest Writers Retreat. Sarah is represented by Pam Victorio at D4EO Literary Agency.

  Visit Sarah online:

  Twitter: @SarahMEden

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  Website: SarahMEden.com

  For every woman who dared to be first so others might follow.

  Historical Note

  While researching the history of women in dentistry and specifics of late-nineteenth-century dentistry, many details surprised me. Not only had the “DDS” (like “MD”) been in use since 1867, dentists in 1890 had long been using amalgam (metal) fillings, gold foil for filling cavities, treadle-powered drills, and full dentures made from vulcanized rubber and teeth (human or animal, or made from porcelain). Dental practices, including the use of laughing gas and injections to anesthetize, were surprisingly advanced . . . despite the lack of sterile, one-time-use needles.

  Evanston, Wyoming Territory

  March 1890

  Dr. Henry Merritt lived simply.

  Despite requiring little for himself, his spending overwhelmed his earnings.

  Dangerously so.

  Until he paid all he owed, his creditors would not extend additional credit. He couldn’t restock his dental cabinet nor feed his horses.

  He rested his head in his hands and stared at the ledger’s columns of numbers.

  Late February sunlight, weak by nature, puddled on the hardwood floor. After his last patient an hour ago, he’d banked the fire in the stove and donned his winter coat.

  No patients, no coal.

  Something must change. Soon.

  He fiddled with an envelope containing another request from the local newspaper fellow, Thomas Fisher. It’s not every day a talented graduate of Pennsylvania College of Dental Surgery settles in a humble railroad town and competes with a woman for business. Readers find such things fascinating.

  The first three requests had flattered. The latest offered compensation enough to pay rent through March. Or pacify one or more creditors.

  The bell over the door tinkled as wintry wind swirled inside. “Going out, are you?” Doc Joe, a medical doctor and Henry’s closest friend, smiled without a care.

  The coat told a tale, but not the correct one. “Thought I might.”

  Henry’s stomach growled. He’d forgotten the box lunch Mrs. Linden had prepared for him.

  “I’ll walk with you. Glorious day. Marginally warm.”

  “Above freezing yet?”

  “Positive thoughts, Doctor. Positive thoughts.” Joe chuckled. “Or grow facial hair like a true Wyomingite.”

  That morning, icy wind had frozen tender membranes in Henry’s nose during the four-block walk from the Linden home. “I’ll survive another few months until spring.”

  He found his keys in the desk drawer, tucked order forms and bills inside the ledger, and shut the book to avoid prying eyes.

  As he tugged on his gloves, he peered through the glass onto Main Street. A gentleman bundled in a heavy coat hurried past, revealing Dr. Isabella Pattison, DDS—the bane of Henry’s existence.

  A deep pink flowerpot hat, covered in silk flowers and ribbons, perched upon her head. Her costume, hidden beneath a figure-hugging black coat and matching muff, was likely the same shade of raspberry.

  A flamboyant waste.

  Mrs. Trolinger and daughters visited with Dr. Pattison and Joe’s wife, Dr. Naomi Chandler, as if dear friends. The Trolinger girls had been terrified of him. The children, apparently, weren’t scared of her.

  The women discussed fashion, evidently, as Miss Pattison raised the hem of her dark pink skirts to reveal high-heeled boots. She must’ve said something humorous, as Mrs. Trolinger and Doc Naomi laughed.

  The girls took in the Parisian styles with awe.

  He turned his back on the nonsense outside. “Why do ladies expend fortunes to dress fashionably?”

  “Some, Naomi tells me, merely enjoy fashion.”

  “Evanston men outnumber ladies four to one. If
she hadn’t scared every bachelor away with enormous dressmaker bills, she’d have married long ago.”

  Married meant leaving dentistry, and that meant an end to Henry’s mounting financial troubles.

  Joe chuckled. “Whistling the same old tune?”

  “You know how I feel. Women do not belong in a man’s domain. Not in an office, and not in a coal mine.”

  “Jealous?”

  Shame washed over him, hot and bitter. The woman’s business grew by preying upon his own.

  “Come outside.” Joe opened the door. “I’ll introduce you.”

  A stale topic of conversation if ever there was one. “No, thank you.”

  Hungry, grumpy, and broke. Now was not the time to pretend niceties.

  Joe chuckled in his sunshine-filled way. “As you’ve said, my friend, for the last ten months. Make that eleven. Sooner or later, you must greet the woman.”

  “Why? I know who she is. And she, I.”

  “I’m surprised.”

  “No surprise here. I’ve not deviated in the year since Miss Pattison hung her shingle.”

  One glimpse, and he’d been snared by an attraction so strong, he’d followed, desperate to learn her name.

  Only to be doused by a proverbial bucket of icy water.

  The sign painter had sought to clarify the spelling of her name.

  Dr. Isabella M. Pattison, DDS.

  He’d abruptly returned to work.

  “The surprise,” Joe said, “is that you avoid a colleague for reasons you cannot explain.”

  “I can explain. I choose not to.” To avoid further conversation, he led the way outside.

  More men walked by, raising their hats. Over the friendly hellos and rush of Wyoming wind, Henry was drawn by Dr. Isabella Pattison’s joyful laughter.

  Why, after nearly a year had passed and numerous paying clients had quit him, preferring her, must he still find her captivating?

  No, today was not the day for introductions. “Just remembered. I’ve an appointment with The Chieftain.”