The Bad Luck Wedding Dress (The Bad Luck Wedding series)

by Geralyn Dawson

  “Of course you spoke out of turn, Monique,” Edmund drawled, lifting his wineglass toward Trace in mock salute. “Few men care for their dealings with whores to be discussed at the dinner table. Am I right, McBride?”

  “Now, Edmund, I wasn’t referring to Trace’s sexual exploits. Rachel Warden mentioned those only in passing.” Monique gave Trace a wink and continued, “Mainly we talked about his financial exploits. He is quite the success story according to Rachel. His End of the Line is considered the best saloon in town, despite the fact he has no abovestairs business. I was quite impressed, actually.”

  She freed a dazzling smile and addressed Trace. “That’s another reason I was so glad you accepted my invitation here tonight. I had an idea that might help Fortune’s Design through these difficult times until the wedding restores her reputation. Your saloon has the perfect place for a stage, Mr. McBride. If you were to host a floor show, my daughter could design costumes for the dancers similar to some of the dresses she’s fashioned for Rachel’s girls. Why, you’d have to add to your building to serve all your customers.” With a quick glance to Edmund, she said, “You must see this one gown she’s made. It’s striped black-and- scarlet satin and cut all the way to—”

  “I’ve seen it,” Trace said flatly, Monique’s words recalling the image to his mind.

  “That’s right.” Monique waved a hand. “Silly of me to forget. That’s what gave me the idea to begin with. Rachel said you took one look at my daughter and—”

  “Mother!” Jenny put down her fork, obviously embarrassed. “Please. I’m not designing any dresses for any floor show.”

  “I should say not,” Edmund agreed. “You won’t have time because you’ll be too busy sewing a trousseau.” Lifting her hand, he pressed a kiss to her palm and added, “I think I’ll request five ensembles, my dear, all similar to this black- and-scarlet striped silk.”

  Trace shoved to his feet. “Excuse me. I’m afraid I’ve developed a bad case of indigestion. It’s time I fetched my girls on home, anyway. Can’t keep them out too late on a school night.”

  He heard Edmund Wharton’s self-satisfied chuckle as he walked away. Monique Day sputtered on about wedding plans, and Jenny remained silent. Upon reaching the doorway into the hotel lobby, he couldn’t resist a glance back.

  She was watching him, her eyes dimmed with an emotion he didn’t want to name. Fragile, he thought. As if a stiff wind could snap her in two. Not at all like his Jenny Fortune.

  His Jenny Fortune. Well, hell.

  Trace slammed the French door behind him.

  CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  WIND BUFFETED the lone figure standing on the second-floor veranda of the stately home overlooking the Ashley River. A dark gray haze hung low in the sky, swallowing the tree- tops and lending an appropriate sense of isolation to the morning.

  Tye McBride’s lips curled in a bitter smile. He didn’t need weather to provide the perception of solitude. He was used to feeling alone, even when surrounded by people. Especially then, in fact, because the crush of bodies in a crowd made him feel his loss more intensely.

  His loss. That made it sound like a death, and in a very real way it was. All his life he’d shared a bond with another soul, his other half, his twin. Distance had not affected it, neither had war. Even in the darkest days of Reconstruction politics, when they were pitted against each other in a vicious battle of words, the connection had never been severed.

  Until that god-awful night seven years ago when a woman had succeeded where all else had failed.

  Since then, Tye had been alone. Bitterly, guiltily, miserably alone.

  Rain spat from the cloud, splattered against the cobblestones, and advanced upon him like a harsh, cold death. The wind whipped and swirled, sending a loose shutter somewhere above him flapping against the wall. Tye stood his ground, braced against the wind, facing the decision he had avoided a good portion of the day.

  He glanced down at the newspaper clenched in his fist. Waterspots had left darkened splotches across the yellowed pages but failed to obstruct the letters of a masthead. D-E-M-O. For the Fort Worth Daily Democrat, a Texas newspaper dated April 18, 1879, and delivered to him by the investigator earlier that day.

  Texas. Why the hell Texas?

  On page 3 under “Letters to the Editor” the owner of a local saloon had chided the city fathers for their crackdown on the entertainments offered in a place the writer called “the Acre.” The letter read in part:

  Mayor Beckham has gone beyond the public mandate to control the lawlessness in the entertainment section of our fair town. With the cattle season beginning, I implore the city leaders to rescind the ordinances that have closed so many of our amusements, keeping the cowboys on the prairie with their herds and their monies still in their pockets. Fort Worth’s economic survival depends on it.

  The letter was signed “Trace McBride, Proprietor, End of the Line Saloon.”

  Tye drew back his arm and threw the rolled newspaper as hard and as far as he could. Weighted by the rain and blown by the wind, it landed atop a flower planter almost directly below.

  “Damn. A bartender.” The injustice of it, the irony of it, made him want to scream. Years ago, alcohol had damn near killed Tye, and his brother had saved him. Trace had left his home, his family, and his flourishing career as an architect to spend three months drying out his hostile and sometimes dangerous brother.

  When it was over, Tye had sworn never to touch the stuff again. He’d broken the vow once, and it had cost him everything.

  “Thackery,” a soft voice called from behind him. “Come inside. You’re getting drenched.”

  Turning around, he smiled at his grandmother. At seventy-four, Mirabelle McBride was still a beautiful woman. White hair crowned a face lined with age, but time had yet to dim the vividness of her emerald eyes. She held out a hand. “Help me, Thackery. This stormy weather seeps into my bones.”

  Tye immediately moved to do her bidding. He would not fail Mirabelle. If she needed him in any way at all, he’d be there to help her. Pressing a kiss to her temple, he took her arm and offered her his support. Just as she had done for him and Trace and their three sisters since the day they buried their parents.

  “Help me to the rocker by the fireplace, dear, and add more wood if you don’t mind. It’s chilly in this parlor. Too chilly for an old woman.”

  “Grandmother, you’ll never be old.” Tye settled her into the seat, then took a log from the woodbox and tossed it onto the low burning flames. Sparks rose up the chimney and within moments the wood caught fire. He lifted a brass poker and moved the logs around. As he returned it to the stand, Mirabelle spoke.

  “What will you do now, Thackery?”

  He shut his eyes. Though he stood mere feet from the now crackling fire, he felt cold inside. Brittle. “I don’t know. I haven’t decided.”

  She tisked. “You decided four years ago when you began searching for your brother.”

  The Westminster chime of the mantel clock struck the quarter hour. “I don’t have to go myself. Anyway, I don’t want to leave you, Grandmother.”

  “I will not be used as an excuse, Tye,” she said pointedly. “I am quite capable of watching out for myself. It isn’t as if I’d be alone, not with your sister living here now.”

  “What about the plantings? I need to—”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, dear, but isn’t that why you asked your sister to move home? That husband of hers is an excellent manager. Ellen and Scott and I can take care of Oak Grove just fine, and if we need any help, your other sisters are only a day away.”

  “But—”

  “No ‘buts,’ Thackery. You must settle between you face-to-face. You owe him that much.”

  He did owe his brother. He owed an explanation and an apology for a start, but neither one would ever be enough to make up for his betrayal, to replace what he had stolen.

  What he had stolen. The words were thorns in his heart. For all hi
s villainy, Tye wasn’t the only one who had stolen. Trace had stolen from him, too. Something irreplaceable. Something precious.

  Guilt fed the anger that flared, fierce and hot inside him. He whirled away from the fire and began to pace the room, fists clenched at his sides. “You’re right, Grandmother. I have to go, don’t I? This situation must be resolved, one way or another.”

  Mirabelle tugged on the lap robe draped over the back of her rocker, then spread it across her legs. “I know it will be difficult for you, Tye, and it will be difficult for Trace, also. When he left here he was hurt and angry and grieved, but six years is a long time. He’ll be ready to listen now.”

  “I don’t know, Grandmother. He hates me still.” He brought his fist up to his heart. “I feel it here.”

  The elderly woman shook her head. “No. Trace isn’t like that. Once he listens to your side of—”

  “If he listens.” Tye caught sight of his reflection in a gilt-framed wall mirror. He saw the traitorous guilt etched in permanent lines across his brow. He saw his brother, horror-stricken and bowed by grief. Memory provided the image of a third figure. Beautiful. Bewitching.

  Bloody.

  If he’d had anything at all in his hand he’d have flung it at the mirror. “He wouldn’t listen six years ago. If our places were reversed, I doubt I’d want to set eyes on him the rest of my life. I betrayed him, Grandmother,” Tye said, his voice rough. “I betrayed him—my own twin brother— in the worst possible way.”

  “Come here, dear,” Mirabelle said, holding out her hand.

  He wanted more than anything to flee the room, but he would not deny his grandmother anything. Steps dragging, Tye crossed the room to stand beside the rocking chair. She took his hand, gave it a squeeze, and brought it to her lips for a kiss. “Other than you, I know Trace better than anyone. He’ll forgive you, Thackery. And once he does, perhaps you’ll be able to forgive yourself.”

  He closed his eyes. He wanted that. God, how he wanted that. In the very core of his soul, he ached for his brother’s forgiveness. Emotion clogged Tye’s throat. “It’ll never happen.”

  “It will. I am certain of it.”

  Tye’s smile was weary. “You believe that, Grandmother, because you don’t know all the facts. You see, there’s something I’ve never told you about that night.”

  Concern furrowed Mirabelle’s brow. “Thackery?”

  He stared into the fire, remembering the hell of that night long ago. “She was dying. Trace held her in his arms. Tears flowed down his face. Constance looked up at him and smiled. She looked so beautiful, Grandmother. Radiant, like an angel. She told him—”

  His teeth clenched. He swallowed hard.

  “What, dear? What did Constance say?”

  Tye spoke in a broken whisper. “Ah, Nana. She told him about the baby.”

  You will have bad luck if you look at the moon through trees or bushes.

  CHAPTER 9

  WITH THE WEDDING DATE set a scant three weeks away, Monique plunged into a flurry of anxious planning. Jenny, unable to shake the aura of melancholy hanging over her, paid scant attention to her mother’s arrangements and participated only when forced.

  While Monique labored to provide the most elegant wedding Fort Worth had ever seen, Edmund hobnobbed with the city’s elite and communed with the sinners down in Hell’s Half Acre. Three or four times a week he arrived on her doorstep to escort her to various social events. He purchased the best seats in the house for P. T. Barnum’s One and Only Show on Earth, then put on a courtship show as entertaining to the crowd as the performances inside the rings. At picnics, soirees, and dance club socials, they played the happy couple, and soon the pending wedding was the talk of the town, fueled by the snippets of gossip provided in the Daily Democrat by Wilhemina Peters.

  Amid all the commotion, the bride-to-be devoted most of her attention to Fortune’s Design.

  Her situation was getting downright desperate. In filling orders from the ladies of Miss Rachel’s Social Emporium, she had depleted her supplies. Her cash reserves remained woefully small because the majority of those orders had been made on credit, the recipients scheduled to make weekly payments on account.

  Jenny knew one word to Monique would replenish her coffers, but Jenny wanted to do this on her own. She needed to do it on her own. She was confident a little conservation here and a little stretching there would carry her through the lean times until her marriage erased the reputation of the Bad Luck Wedding Dress from the minds of the citizens of Fort Worth.

  The McBride Menaces took to visiting her shop every afternoon, providing a well-appreciated distraction from her troubles. She found their attempts to dissuade her from her intended course of action both creative and heartbreaking.

  They talked about Trace constantly, expounding at length about his good qualities, glossing over his less attractive traits—such as his taste for green peas. Even more telling, the girls acted like angels. They abandoned all their pranks and took up doing good deeds—going so far as to assist Sister Gonzaga in the nuns’ garden. As the wedding date grew closer, they intensified their efforts. They made wild promises, swore vows of good behavior, pleaded their case with tear-filled eyes and a sense of drama that affected Jenny more than they guessed.

  Their objective was obvious. They wanted Jenny to marry their father. Short of telling them Trace had sworn—quite forcefully—never to marry again, Jenny did everything within her power to convince them to abandon their hopes. She stated clearly and often that her wedding to Edmund Wharton would take place as planned, at the same time assuring the McBrides that her marriage would not interfere with the friendship they shared.

  But Emma, Maribeth, and Katrina refused to give up. The day before the wedding, Jenny arrived at her shop to find Maribeth McBride seated on the stoop. “We’ve a holiday today,” she said.

  “So soon?” Jenny unlocked the front door and stepped inside. Maribeth trailed in after her.

  “It’s sort of an emergency holiday. There was a big fight at school yesterday, and Miss Blackstone declared a day off to allow everyone time for tempers to cool. You should be proud of us, Miss Fortune. Emmie, Kat, and I sat off to the side and watched. We weren’t involved one little bit. Miss Blackstone could hardly believe it.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “You should see Sally Franklin, though.” Wonder filled the youngster’s voice. “Biggest shiner I’ve ever seen. Sally will be black and blue for weeks.”

  Not wanting to comment on acts of violence in the classroom, Jenny changed the subject by posing a question about the newest housekeeper employed by Trace McBride.

  “We’ve decided to be nice to Mrs. Wilson,” Maribeth replied. “She bakes the best green apple pie we’ve ever tasted. Don’t tell Papa, but it’s because of the brandy. She adds a scosh of brandy to the recipe.”

  “A scosh of brandy, hmm?” Jenny stifled a smile, hiding her amusement.

  “Yep. Papa would probably have a fit if he knew. You know how he is about drinking.”

  Jenny remembered the taste of whiskey in his kiss and said, “No, I don’t. What do you mean?”

  “Well.” The child paused dramatically and accepted a molasses cookie from a plate Jenny offered. “It’s because he owns a saloon, you see. He tells us he sees some very wicked things that arise from a person’s overindulgence. He wants us to know we never have to worry about him doing anything wrong because of John Barleycorn.”

  “John Barleycorn,” Jenny repeated. “Your father said that?”

  Maribeth nodded and chomped her cookie. “Papa never touches the stuff.”

  Why, the big liar. Jenny sat at her worktable, thoroughly disgusted. She knew very well Trace McBride had been drinking the day he came to Miss Rachel’s room. Was he trying to protect his daughters from the knowledge of his vices? While she might understand it, she refused to condone it. Lying was never a good excuse for the truth. If she were the girls’ mother, she’d make certain—
>
  Jenny broke off the thought. She wasn’t going to think that way. She wasn’t their mother. She never would be their mother.

  After wiping crumbs off her face with her sleeve, Maribeth said, “Miss Fortune, can I talk with you about something?”

  “Certainly.”

  The girl straddled a chair next to Jenny, heedless of a bold display of petticoat. Her expression turned somber and her eyes glazed. “It’s about the wedding. You must listen to us, it’s very important. Kat and Emma and I are convinced you shouldn’t marry Mr. Wharton.”

  Jenny sighed. She’d anticipated this talk for days now, and she’d planned a nice, clear explanation the girls would understand. “Now, sweetheart, I want you and your sisters to know that nothing will change between us once I’m married. You’ll still be welcome here; you’ll still be my friends. I’m doing what I must do.”

  “No, Miss Fortune, you’re wrong. Haven’t you noticed how good we’ve been lately? We haven’t done a single bad thing. We’d be wonderful daughters.”

  Ah, so that’s what this was about. Jenny reached across the table and tilted up Maribeth’s chin. “I’d like nothing more than for y’all to be my daughters. But honey, the fact is—”

  Bang, bang, bang. The back door rattled from the force of the knock.

  Maribeth hopped up and ran to answer it. Hinges creaked as the door swung open. “It’s Mr. Starnes from the railroad, Miss Fortune.”

  “Howdy, ma’am.” The burly deliveryman stood beside a wagon, invoice in hand. “I have a shipment for you that’s come all the way from Europe. Imagine that.”

  Immediately Jenny forgot all about weddings and explanations and excuses. Her fabric had arrived! She’d placed this order months ago, when Fortune’s Design looked to be a resounding success, long before Wilhemina Peters and Ethel Baumgardner started spreading their clothesline talk. Excitement sparked to life inside her. “Oh, I’ve been waiting for this shipment. There is a particular bolt of cloth I’m dying to work with. It’s a midnight-blue silk shot with gold and silver threads.”