by Forever Wild
“Why don’t you close the parasol?” he asked. “You can loop the ribbon around your wrist.”
“I think I shall,” she said grandly. “It’s very heavy.”
Old Jack was waiting at the church, down in front with the Reverend Carpenter. “I’ll be jiggered,” he said. “You look like a mighty fine lady, Marcy.”
She smiled and sailed down the aisle to him, though her knees gave way in midsail and Drew had to support her with his arm. By the time the Reverend Carpenter had opened his book and begun the service, she was frowning in bewilderment. Who had let loose the swarm of bees in the church? She couldn’t see them, but she could certainly hear them, buzzing so loudly in her head that they threatened to drown out the reverend.
I can’t breathe, she thought. I’ve eaten too much. And this danged corset…! She wriggled in distress, looked helplessly at Drew, and hiccoughed loudly. The Reverend Carpenter stopped, his mouth twitching in a weak smile, and cleared his throat.
“Shall I go on, Miss Tompkins?”
“Of course,” she said, and hiccoughed again. Beside her Drew made a sound that was like a snorting horse.
“Go on, Reverend,” he said solemnly.
Marcy blinked her eyes, trying to clear her head. Good! That seemed to have chased away the bees. But the hiccoughs remained, and were getting worse, bubbling up from her chest every minute or so. Drew didn’t seem to mind; in fact, he was now chuckling softly, but the reverend looked scandalized.
The smile faded from Drew’s face. “Please go on, Reverend. Pay Miss Tompkins no mind. An unfortunate physical condition. She can’t help it. It runs in the family.”
Old Jack began to sputter. “Consarn it! Family condition? She’s been drinking!” The reverend dropped his missal.
“Uncle Jack!” cried Drew in horror. “How can you say that? You know I’m ‘Temperance.’ Marcy is as sober as I am. I wouldn’t marry her under any other conditions. Now please, Reverend, hurry with the ceremony. You can hear how the poor child is suffering.” He turned mournful eyes on Marcy, whose hiccoughs had now become so violent that she felt in danger of snapping the hooks of her dress.
I want to die, she thought. Something is the matter with my head, and my eyes, and my ears. And the room, which doesn’t want to stop spinning. And these blamed hiccoughs…
“Do you, Miss Tompkins?”
She jumped. The Reverend Carpenter was staring at her. What an unpleasantly loud voice, she thought. “Do I what?”
“I’ve just asked you if you take this man, and…et cetera.”
She nodded vigorously and hiccoughed again. “I do,” she said. “And et cetera too.”
“Then I pronounce you man and wife.”
She grinned and threw her arms around Drew’s neck. There was a loud pop. She looked down and saw the button of her gray petticoat slide from beneath her skirts and wobble across the floor. There was a rustling sound; then the petticoat itself lay about her ankles.
“Oh hell!” said Drew and burst into laughter. He handed the reverend his fee and thanked him profusely as the poor man, white and shaking, escaped to the safety of his parsonage. He turned to Old Jack. “I’d thought to ask you to have a bit of wedding supper with us, Uncle Jack, but I don’t think Marcy can quite manage it.”
Old Jack shook his head. “You dang well better keep a tight rein on that girl! I have friends in North Creek. Don’t fret for me. I’ll see you in the morning.” He jerked his chin toward Marcy, who was now swaying precariously. “What are you going to do about her?”
Marcy stared at her left hand in bewilderment. “When did you give me the ring, Drew?” The words were oddly slurred.
Drew laughed again. “She sure as hell can’t walk back to the hotel, Uncle Jack! With or without her petticoat around her feet. Come on, Mrs. Bradford. Step out of that petticoat and hang on to your hat.”
She frowned at him, but did as she was told. At least the hiccoughing had stopped.
“Good night, Uncle Jack.” Drew reached out, grabbed Marcy around the waist, and slung her over one shoulder. “See you in the morning.”
Dang him, she thought, clutching her hat for dear life as she bobbed upside down on his shoulder. She really ought to tell him to put her down. But she was suddenly too tired to care.
She woke to find herself in bed and the hotel room in darkness except for one small kerosene lamp. Drew was sitting and reading, his tall form covered with a long white nightshirt. Her hands went under the covers, feeling for her clothes. He’d left her the chemise, at least. She sat up. Her head still felt light. “What time is it?”
He looked up and smiled. “Only about nine.” He put down his book and crossed to the bed. “How do you feel?”
She groaned. “Good grief. Was I really drunk?”
“Gloriously. I don’t think the reverend will ever be the same.”
“And I hiccoughed? And said those things?”
“What things?”
“About the bees in the church.”
He chuckled. “No. Thank God you didn’t tell us about the bees.”
“And my petticoat.” Maybe she’d imagined that, too, she thought hopefully.
“I had to go back later and fish around in the dark for the button.”
“Oh-h-h. I’m sorry, Drew.”
“Sorry?” He began to laugh. “I thought it was the best wedding in the world!”
She giggled. “The reverend was lucky I didn’t lose my drawers!” They began to laugh together, clinging to each other in helpless merriment until Marcy began to feel the tears pouring down her cheeks. “I can’t…” she gasped. “I can’t! If I don’t stop, my face will crack! And I’m dying of thirst.”
“There’s a big pitcher of water in the parlor.” He kissed her, patted her softly on the rump. “Hurry back. I’ll be waiting for you.”
When she returned from the parlor, he was stretched out on the bed. It all seemed so unreal, so wonderful, this whole incredible day. And now her love, her husband was waiting for her. She marched over to the bed and stared down at him. “Tarnation, Drew Bradford! I do love you!”
She let out a whoop and leaped on top of him. There was a loud crash as the bed slats gave way and the mattress fell through to the floor. They sat up together, roaring with laughter, their bodies tangled in the sheets and quilt.
Marcy threw her arms around his neck, feeling a sudden sharp pang at her heart.
“Oh Drew,” she whispered. “Let’s never stop laughing.”
Chapter Seven
Willough poured the coffee and handed the cup to Nat. I wonder what he’s thinking, she thought, staring at me with those eyes. Golden brown, with dark flecks in them. A tiger’s eyes. She knew what he was thinking when he looked at Brian—the eyes were cool, polite, with just the edge of distaste for the rich industrialist. I’ll work for you, I’ll work with you, the eyes seemed to say, but I don’t have to like what you’re doing.
She certainly knew what he was thinking when he looked at Arthur. He had watched Arthur like a hawk all during dinner, frowning each time Arthur bent to her with a soft compliment, a gentle touch of his hand on hers. And when they had moved into the parlor for coffee, Nat had positioned himself in the middle of the sofa, so there was no way Arthur could sit next to her. She had glared at Nat and drawn up a small chair to the serving table.
After that humiliating scene in the boathouse, she thought, he must think that I’m a fool as well as a snob. I behaved so badly, forgetting all I’ve been taught of how a lady should behave. The game went too far. Not because of any impropriety on Arthur’s part, but because I encouraged him. I’m sure nothing would have happened, but it was frightfully indiscreet nonetheless.
“I’ll have more coffee, lass.” Brian held out his cup to her.
“Are you sure, Daddy? You didn’t sleep well last night. I could hear you tossing and turning when I came down here for a book.”
He laughed softly. “Hell, lass, I should be getting drunk.”
His voice had a lilt to it. “We’ve something to celebrate tonight. Eh, Nat?”
“I’m still concerned.”
“Humbug! What’s to be concerned about? Rutherford and Seneca practically guaranteed my loan before they went back to the city this afternoon. By winter I should have the new finery built and ready for operation.”
“Where are you going to get the men? We’re short at the furnaces now because you’ve started a crew cutting wood and making charcoal over at New Russia.”
“That’s right, Daddy. And when winter comes, you’ll lose more of the laborers to the lumber camps.”
Brian snorted. “Lumbering! It’s dangerous work. Why should a man choose that if he can work in a finery?”
“It pays well, sir. And it doesn’t take too much skill.”
“Dammit, Nat! Neither does making charcoal, so why should I lose my best teamsters and fillers to the lumber camps?”
“Because you don’t pay them enough, Daddy. We’re already short-handed. You take your furnace men and put them in the new finery, and you’ll have to find new men someplace!”
Arthur reached forward and put down his cup and saucer. “There’s been a lot of talk, Brian, down in Albany…not openly, you understand…but Clinton Prison is bursting at the seams. There’s some talk of using the prisoners to help out. Not as teamsters, certainly. Somewhere they could be watched…”
Brian scratched his chin. “Maybe in the mines…I wouldn’t have to be concerned about wages…” He eyed Arthur shrewdly. “How much would it cost me?”
“It’s just in the talking stages right now. It would depend on who’s up for reelection. And it might take some new legislation to get round all those ladies’ humane groups… But it would mean a lot of free labor.”
Nat frowned at Arthur and turned to Brian. “I’m not so sure it would be a wise idea, sir. If it meant that just one man around here was put out of a job, there could be trouble.”
Arthur looked at Nat with contempt. “You’re remarkable, Stanton. All this sentimental concern for the men and the land. I wonder you don’t join the ministry. You seem to have missed your calling.”
Nat smiled tightly. “I dislike all plunderers, whether they exploit men, or land, or”—his eyes flicked briefly to Willough—”anything else.”
Willough looked from one tense face to the other. “There’s no point in discussing it,” she said quickly, “unless it becomes a reality.”
“Quite so.” Brian rubbed his belly and nodded to the servant who had come in to the parlor and was standing attentively at his side. “Is everything in order, Martha?”
“Yessir, Mr. Bradford. Robert has set up a bed in the boathouse, and I’ve left you a sleeping powder on the table and laid out your nightclothes.”
“Well then, if you’ll excuse me. Willough? Gentlemen?”
Willough frowned. Daddy looked drawn. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Certainly, lass. I know I didn’t sleep last night because it was too warm. The boathouse gets the breezes from the lake. It should do for me very well. We’ll see you in the morning, Arthur? Before you go back to the city?”
Brian went out into the night, to the boathouse and his bed. Willough stared pointedly at Nat. Why doesn’t he retire also? she thought. It was intolerable to sit here with the two men glaring at each other. Doesn’t Nat have any sense of propriety? She was scouring her brain, trying to think of something to say that would send him away, when he rose from his chair.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he said. “I have some work to do.” He nodded to them both and went up the stairs to his room.
Thank heaven! she thought. She smiled at Arthur. “More coffee?”
“Please.” While she poured, he moved over to the sofa and patted the seat. “You look uncomfortable in that stiff chair. Here.”
She handed him the coffee and sat beside him. “I hope it’s not too warm in the city,” she began. She stopped, glanced up at the balcony and the bedrooms that overlooked the parlor. Nat was sitting at his desk in his bedroom, a book open before him, his head bent to the pages. He had left his door open. She thought, The impertinence of the man! She tried to ignore his presence as she chatted with Arthur, but she was acutely aware of her own voice each time she murmured a response or laughed at a harmless pleasantry; she wondered how it sounded to Nat, spying from his room.
Except for a sharp edge to his voice, Arthur seemed unaware of Nat. At last he put down his unfinished coffee and turned to Willough. “Come for a walk in the moonlight. I find our…chaperone intolerable.”
They strolled under an August sky filled with moonlight, scented with honeysuckle—and talked of nothing in particular. He’s such a gentleman, thought Willough. Not a word about what had happened in the boathouse. She was grateful for his sensitivity to her feelings. She would have died of embarrassment if he had spoken of it. At last she sighed. “It’s been a lovely evening, Arthur. But you’ve a train to catch in the morning. And Daddy wanted to see you before you go.”
“And it’s dangerous for us to be out here together,” he said softly.
“What do you mean?” She felt her heart skip a beat.
“I think you know, Willough. I shan’t press you tonight. Not under the spell of this moonlight. But I want to see you when you return to the city. Not in your mother’s house. I wouldn’t want to call on you there. Perhaps supper. Delmonico’s. A private dining room. Someplace where I can have you all to myself.” They had reached the back door of the house. Arthur laughed sharply. “I hope, for your sake, that your watchdog has gone to bed.” He took her hand in his. “May I kiss you good night? A very chaste kiss,” he added, as she hesitated.
“Of course.” She lifted her chin. He bent his head and brushed his lips softly against her cheek.
“Till the morning,” he said.
She let herself in at the kitchen door. The back of the house was in darkness. Not even a light showed under Robert and Martha’s door. She passed through the kitchen and the moonlit dining room. A faint glow of light came from the parlor beyond. Martha must have left her a kerosene lamp to see her way to bed. She stopped, feeling a sudden chill of fear. With the exception of the servants, sleeping in their quarters, she was alone in the house with Nat. The bankers were gone. And Daddy was in the boathouse, insensible till morning because of his strong sleeping draught. She laughed at her foolishness. Nat had surely gone to bed by now. But just to be on the safe side, she’d lock her door for protection.
She frowned in perplexity. Against what? The things Nat had said in the boathouse had frightened her, but she hadn’t really understood. Oh God! Why hadn’t her mother ever told her anything? Surely that “fate worse than death” had nothing to do with the delicious giddiness she had felt with Arthur in the boathouse, or just now, when he had spoken softly in the moonlight. She was sure it had more to do with the trembling, the breathless terror she felt when Nat looked at her.
Nat was in the dimly lit parlor, pulling down a book from the bookshelf. Willough felt the anger boil within her. How dare the man! He had waited up for her like a suspicious parent, like a disgusting snoop! “You’re beneath contempt,” she said.
He turned mild eyes to her. “I came down for a book. Nothing more.”
“And your open door? And your spying on us?”
“It seemed a sensible idea. To keep an eye on you.”
She smiled in sarcasm. “Don’t you want to know what happened outside, with Arthur?”
“I’m sure nothing happened. Your father has usurped the boathouse. And I fancy your Mr. Gray likes his comforts.”
“Especially for a seduction?” she asked, mocking him.
He sighed. “I don’t want to quarrel with you tonight.”
But I want to quarrel with you! she thought. Oh, how she itched to tell him what she thought of him! “Is it because he’s rich and you’re not?” It was cruel, but she suddenly wanted to hurt him.
A small muscle twitched in his
jaw. “Money’s only important for what you can accomplish in the world. Not for its self-indulgence.”
“But surely you envy him,” she persisted. “His refinement. His polish. His obvious familiarity with the finer things. That you can only dream about.” He flinched at that. Good! she thought. She’d drawn blood. He turned and replaced the book on the shelf. “Doesn’t it disturb you that he’s so much finer than you are?” she purred.
He whirled on her, his nostrils flaring in anger. “Go to bed, Willough,” he said tightly.
“Miss Bradford, if you don’t mind. I wonder Daddy doesn’t insist you sleep out in the stables with the carriage horses!”
The storm burst from him. “You little bitch,” he spat. “You rich man’s daughter! Do you enjoy playing with fire? You’re tempting me beyond endurance!”
Her eyes widened in fear. What had she done?
He took a menacing step toward her, his teeth clenched in fury. “Run!” he said. “Run to your safe little room and lock the door behind you. Or I just might do something that your father should have done years ago!”
She stumbled toward the steps, quivering in fear and something else—horror at her own cruel words that had unleashed the storm.
“No. Wait.”
She stopped and turned, eyeing him uneasily.
“Willough. Miss Bradford.” He took a deep breath. It was clear he was struggling to control his anger. “Forgive me. For what I just said. And for…playing the spy. That was uncalled for.” He crossed to a window and turned, half sitting, half leaning on the sill. He seemed to be choosing his words with care. “Don’t go up just yet. I’ve behaved badly all evening. All week, actually. Since that unfortunate day in the boathouse. Forgive me.”
She stared at him, at his strong face softened by the glow of the single lamp. She’d never heard that tone in his voice before.
“I can’t blame you for being angry,” he said. “I’ve been a fool. The truth is…I do envy Gray. Not for his money, or his advantages, or all the rest of it. But for you.”