by Holly Bush
“Mr. Gentry?”
Adam grabbed the clamp and handed it to George. “Sorry.”
George smiled and then turned to continue with his work. “Mrs. Gentry feeling better, sir?”
Good God! Adam thought. He was mostly likely the subject of some unseemly speculation as he was unable to concentrate for longer than a minute and had actually walked into a partially opened barn door as he thought about their early morning awakening and didn’t watch where he was stepping. She was all pent-up passion with no maidenly modesty, but she was artless as well. There was nothing planned or contrived about Emmaline’s sexuality.
“Much better,” he said. “In fact, if all is in hand here, I’m going to see if Mrs. Gentry is setting out a luncheon.”
George nodded and smiled again, with a wink. “Yes, sir.”
Adam walked out of the barn with as much dignity as he could muster, careful to step through the door rather than into it. He found Emmaline back at the writing desk in the main room. She was laughing softly as he approached.
“Something must be silly enough to make you laugh like that,” he said as he came to stand beside the desk among discarded pieces of paper.
She looked up at him and smiled. “There was something silly enough, and I wrote it. There is no greater feeling than when the words I put on paper have meaning and provoke a response, whether it’s laughter or tears or terror. Even though I’m the one writing them.”
It was apparent that there was much more to his young bride than he’d thought a month ago, or even a week ago. It didn’t seem as if she was prepared to share more of what she was doing as they stared at each other and he sensed she would have to make her own decision as to when to take him into her confidences. “Have you had your lunch?”
“No. I haven’t.” She turned around in her seat. “I’d like to go into town before we eat. Would you care to join me?”
“I would. Let me change. Are you missing your mother and sisters? It has been a while since we’ve visited with them.”
“Dear Lord, no. Although we can stop if you insist.”
“I don’t insist. Where will we be going? Do I need to change into something more presentable?”
She shook her head and bent to gather papers, after capping her fountain pen. “You don’t need to change unless you are concerned with what Mrs. Witherspoon thinks of you.”
“You have something to be telegraphed or mailed?”
“Something has been delivered for me, actually.”
“Let me get the gig.”
A few minutes later, they were seated side by side and on their way to Winchester. He glanced over at her and found her looking off into the forest of trees, and then looking closely at Matt and Annie’s home as they rode by as if she was hoping to see one of them.
“It’s a beautiful day,” he said and thought that comment was about as trite a thing as he could utter, but he was feeling out of his depths and didn’t know what else to say. Which was ridiculous as he was an adult man with a decade more living under his belt than her. And it gnawed at him. He sensed he couldn’t charm Emmaline. He couldn’t coax her or compliment her or guide her in the direction he wanted her to go. She would go the direction she chose, with him or without him.
“It is,” she said and lifted her face up to the sun. “It feels like summer is finally here for good.”
He turned his head to look at her. Her dark hair was shining and waving and pulled back loosely with a ribbon. She had a long neck, a strong chin, and a perfect nose with just a dusting of freckles. Her eyes were dark brown with streaks of lighter color, as if someone had stirred molasses, fringed with long lashes, meant to make him want to kiss her until neither of them could breathe. She was beautiful, even dressed in her drab gray, high-necked dress. She was his wife. And he hadn’t the foggiest notion of how to proceed with his marriage or if there was to be any marriage at all.
* * *
EMMALINE WAS sick to her stomach. Not like she’d been when she’d been expecting a child, thank goodness, but nevertheless, feeling as if the bread and jelly she’d eaten that morning were going to reappear in her lap. She was sweating and doing everything in her power to not flap her elbows to get some air to her underarms. Phillip, who was not much of a brat lately, had come to Paradise that very morning to tell her that Witherspoon had sent word that there was a letter for her, and that he didn’t know whether to send it to Paradise or whether she’d be stopping at her mother’s. She knew what it was. She was certain it was a response from Beadle’s Dime Novels. A yes, thank you, or a no, no thank you. She could barely draw breath she was so excited and nervous and terrified. They would certainly say no as they had in the past, she’d told herself all morning, tamping down hope to prepare for the inevitable rejection.
She especially didn’t want to share any of this with Adam Gentry, but she supposed she must now. He’d asked her last night to tell him about her dreams and she was obligated to, wasn’t she? Well, there would be no going back now after she’d made the suggestion he come with her. Why had she done it? She’d planned to ask him for a horse to ride or the gig so that she could go to town and nothing else. What had prompted her to ask him to come along, and what had compelled him to agree?
She would wait to tell him anything until she’d read her letter. If it was a no, and it most likely was, maybe she wouldn’t tell him anything at all. She certainly didn’t want his pity. If it was a yes, perhaps. But it wouldn’t be a yes. She was sure of it. But maybe this time . . .
Adam pulled the gig up in front of the telegraph office, jumped down, and came around to help her down, but she couldn’t seem to make her legs work or take her eyes from the door, knowing that her future, well, not her entire future, but the answer to the question. of her talent, lay beyond it, folded in an envelope.
“Emmaline?” he said finally.
She turned to look at him, and he was staring at her in the strangest way. “Oh, yes. Yes.” She took a deep breath and laid her hand in his.
“Would you like me to go in for you?”
Adam was looking at her with concern, as any husband might, considering she was standing in the street, unable to move her feet, or so it seemed.
She shook her head and went up the plank steps to the door of the telegraph office. She looked down at the knob, brass, she thought it might have been made of, and shiny where every customer caught it in their hand or glove and turned it to enter. She stared at the knob and the painted door, peeling and flaking down to the bare wood.
“Emmaline? Are you alright?” she heard from behind her. She nodded as she feared she was unable to do more than squeak a response. She turned the knob and walked inside.
Mrs. Witherspoon looked up. “Emmaline? I suppose I should call you Mrs. Gentry now but that doesn’t seem right as your husband’s mama has been Mrs. Gentry round these parts forever and a day.”
“My brother,” she began and stopped to clear her throat. “My brother said you had an envelope for me.”
“I do, dear. Now let me find it. It’s here somewhere.” The woman rooted through stacks of papers and newspapers, causing Emmaline to stop breathing, thinking her letter, the one she’d been waiting for for six months, was misplaced.
“Ah, here it is.” Mrs. Witherspoon held the letter above her head, shaking it as if it were a flag on the battlefield. She leaned down on her elbows on the counter, still holding the letter, and looked at Emmaline with a smile. “Now tell me about your wedding. I’ve heard practically nothing about the details other than what the minister’s wife said.”
Emmaline couldn’t remove her eyes from the envelope, but she knew that if there was any hope of getting her hands on it, she was going to have to satisfy Mrs. Witherspoon’s curiosity. “It was beautiful. Just beautiful,” Emmaline said in a breathless voice, bringing Mrs. Witherspoon’s face closer as she leaned farther across the counter.
“Yes?”
“Just beautiful. We are in love, of cours
e, and I really only had eyes for Mr. Gentry. I hardly noticed anything else.”
“What a fine match you’ve made!” Mrs. Witherspoon winked.
“I don’t want to keep him waiting,” she said, staring at the letter the woman was now holding against her bosom.
“Oh, yes! Here you are, dear, and congratulations.”
Emmaline’s hand shook as she took the letter, staring down at it, thinking perhaps there would be some outward sign of their intent. But how ridiculous! Did she think the editor would scratch, “you’re a talentless buffoon” across the top? No, of course not.
“All the way from Buffalo, New York,” Mrs. Witherspoon commented. “We don’t get too many letters from New York.”
“I have an aunt who lives there.”
“Ah,” she said and nodded. “That explains it.”
Emmaline went out the door and down the steps, never removing her eyes from the scripted lettering of her name. One of the Mr. Beadles, as there were two of them, brothers, had looked at her writing and wrote the letter in return. She turned it over several times as if waiting for some divine providence to tell her what was inside.
“Emmaline? Is it bad news?”
“I don’t know.” She looked up at Adam, who was staring at her. “Will you take me back to Paradise now?”
He stared at her for some time until he slapped his leg with his hat and put it back on his head. “Of course. Let me help you up.”
She decided on the way to Paradise that she would tell him either way. He’d been nothing but courteous to her, and she’d never known him to be spiteful or malicious. Of course, he was neither of those two things. This was Adam Gentry. A gentleman.
Someone from the stables led the gig away and Adam followed her into the house.
“I’ll check back on you later,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll want some privacy to read your letter.”
“I will”—she stopped him with her response as he turned to the door—“but I’d like to talk to you about it once I’m done reading.” She held up the envelope between them. “Much of my dream lies inside.”
“I’ll wait here then, in the hallway.”
She took a deep breath and went into the main room, closing the door behind her. She stood at the window for a minute or two thinking about what it would mean for her marriage and life if the letter contained a yes or if it contained a no. Finally, she opened the envelope with shaking fingers and pulled out a single sheet of paper that had been folded in half.
Dear Miss Somerset,
Beadle’s Dime Novels would like to publish your work, Andrew Bartholomew Pans for Gold. We will publish the first five chapters one month and the next five the following. Will there be additional chapters?
Sincerely,
Erastus Beadle
She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t . . . oh, dear Lord. They were going to take her book! “Adam!” she shouted. “Adam!”
“What is it, Emmaline?” He hurried to her and put his hands on her shoulders. “What is it?”
“Oh, Adam,” she said and laid her hands on his chest. “It’s not bad news. It’s good news. Spectacular news, in fact.”
“Tell me.” He closed his eyes and let out a held breath. He took her hands in his.
“I’m so sorry! I’ve worried you, didn’t I?” She smiled at him.
“You did have me worried but now that I know the news is good, I’m just curious and happy for you because I can see that whatever it is, it means a great deal to you.” He kissed her knuckles.
She burst into noisy and unflattering tears. “Oh, Adam,” she said finally when she could speak again. “My story is going to be published. I have been writing stories since I was very young. This is the third time I’ve sent something to Beadle’s and I’d convinced myself that if they said no this time, I would give up. Stop writing. But they didn’t say no. They said yes!”
She flung herself into his arms and he lifted her off of her feet, swinging her around in a circle. She kissed him on the mouth with a loud smack, staring into his eyes. He was smiling, crookedly, making himself look more attractive and virile than usual if that was at all possible. She dropped her eyes to his mouth. She slid down his front until her feet touched the floor, his head following hers down. He kissed her softly.
He held her face between two hands. “You write books? You never fail to surprise me, Emmaline. What will you write of our story?”
“We don’t know yet, do we, Adam?” She covered his hands with her own.
“I’m just starting to think about what you’ve said. Beadle’s? You will be writing dime novels? You have written a dime novel?”
She was uncertain, suddenly, about what he would think. Would she look ridiculous to him? Would he insist she quit writing and be a real wife? “I’ve written dime novels. Andrew Bartholomew Pans for Gold is the name of the one they are to publish in two parts. I’ve written two others that they didn’t take and some stories for a magazine called Ladies Quest.”
Adam was shaking his head, staring at her. He moved his hands to her shoulders. “You’ve written novels? And been published in a magazine?”
She straightened her spine. “I have.”
“This is your dream? This is what you were working on last night when I found you at that desk?”
“I’m working on something new for Beadle’s right now. That’s what I was working on when you found me.” She looked up at his face anxiously. She couldn’t discern what he thought other than complete and total surprise, which was a bit of an insult if she thought about it overly long.
“I am amazed by you. I’m humbled,” he said finally, releasing her shoulders and walking away. “This is your dream.”
“Yes. This is my dream. Well, part of it anyway.”
He turned back to her. “Part of it?”
“There is a place in Philadelphia, a school, a home, actually, for female writers. I want to go there,” she said breathlessly. “There’s a six-month course I’ve been accepted for.” She’d never said it all out loud. Never actually put into words what her greatest wish was, but if there was ever a time to do so, it was now. Maybe it would ease the way for Adam to understand that a separation was the best possible answer for them. “I’ve always wanted to go there.”
“Then you should go. You should chase this dream of yours.”
“You will allow a divorce then?”
He shook his head and walked to her, until he was just an inch away. He gazed over her face, lingering on her mouth. “Why a divorce? This marriage of ours will be what we make of it, and I say we can make something grand. Something worthy of the Gentry expectations and the Somerset ambitions. What do you say, wife?”
He was actually going to allow her to go? Perhaps even encourage her? This was more than she’d dreamed of, more than she would allow herself to hope for. And he’d called her wife, while looking at her lips, making her take a short breath and acknowledge a shiver of awareness between her legs. It was possible she’d met her match. She wanted to throw her arms around him and make him kiss her like he’d done the day before in the hallway. She looked up at him instead.
“Who will keep house for you? Who will supervise the staff? Who will plan meals? Who will do all the things your mother has always done?”
“I’m not sure”—he closed the distance between her mouth and his—“but I can’t imagine that Jenny and Mabel can’t keep the house clean and cook for me. It will only be me after all.”
She could feel the heat of his breath and smell hay and dirt on his clothes. “You would allow it, but would you be happy?” she whispered and glanced at his mouth.
“I think,” he said and touched his lips to hers, “I think that if you are happy, then so will I be. I want this dream for you and I don’t want to lose you.” He kissed the side of her mouth. “You won’t be gone forever, although I think I will miss you very much and probably worry myself sick over your safety.”
“Will you?” She closed h
er eyes.
He nodded slowly, barely leaving his connection to her lips. “Will you miss me?”
Her eyes flashed open. “Yes. I find it strange considering we barely know each other but, yes. I will miss you.”
He touched the seam of her lips with his tongue, tracing his way around her mouth, setting her on fire as he’d done before. His tongue touched hers and she closed her mouth and drew on it, eliciting a moan from deep in his chest. She put her hands around his neck and ran her fingers into his hair, twisting his curls as he turned his mouth to deepen their kiss and pull her against him, chest to breast and knee to knee. She was certain she would miss him.
CHAPTER 9
Adam was shocked, and that was an understatement, he thought to himself. He’d known her dreams had something to do with her neatly stacked pages of paper on the end of the secretary desk and even the ones scattered around on the floor. But it hadn’t occurred to him that the young, seemingly broken, and uncomplicated young woman that he married wrote novels. His wife was an author. He felt as if he was ten foot tall! She was his wife! He’d known she was bright with a quick, sharp wit, but there was more to the process, he was certain, than just writing words and making a few jokes among them. She wrote entire novels with beginnings and middles and ends.
He pulled up from the fast pace he’d set York to and settled the horse into a walk as they made their way through some dense trees. The woods were quiet and the path thin, but he was glad Emmaline had shooed him out the door, so she could write back to Mr. Beadle. This part of the Paradise property was always where he’d come when he needed to think and be contemplative, although he hadn’t been here since Josephine had died. Where he’d hidden the Morgans, the full-blooded ones his parents bought to breed, from the Confederates and the Yankees, too, during the War between the States, for months at a time, with just an occasional visit from his father or from Ben, the stable master at the time.